My grandmother, her gods and I (Part II)
My continuing stay in Awka, days after my unauthorized sojourn from our home in Kano, with all the efforts to consolidate my new abode, were tacitly motivated by a worthy desire by my grandmother to hold onto her favourite grandson and keep him “hostage” in her Awka home that had long been deserted by her loving children in pursuit of their personal and family livelihoods. My grandmother showed no desire to inquire from me, or report to my parents about my sudden presence at her home, when I should have been at my parents home, and in school. We both, without speaking a word to each other about it, understood the conspiratorial acquiescence to my malfeasant and recalcitrant behaviour, and didn’t care much about the consequences. As long as my grandmother had the sweet company of her Okechukwu, and I, the unfettered freedom of living a life of absolute joy with uninhibited movement, everything was perfect.
Many questions hang in my mind as I write this story, and they continue to vex me, and not just in terms of the value or authenticity of the sordid tales, but how in the hell I was allowed to literally get away with murder. Please, don’t get me wrong, as I am utterly convinced that my parents applied concerted efforts to rein me in, even as I reckon that I had, as a child growing up, become allergic to the nuances of anything good and proper. In Kano, I was called a “dan iska”; a son of the thin fleeting air, a rascal of no mean level. To highlight my growing up failures and the complexities, I fear may derail this story and put us all in a spin. The only answer to my conundrum, was that I passed my school examinations very well. As I continued to volarize pass the events of my life, with its principal aim being to expose my many misdeeds and put in perspective how they support our history and culture, I am hopeful that I can only do that with integrity, if it shows us our flaws, our scheming, and occasionally our greatness and good virtues and fortunes.
Apocalyptic tension stirred the search of an eight year old boy who left home for school and suddenly disappeared into thin air without a clue of his whereabouts. Our home in Kano became a beehive of activities from police detectives, family members and friends of the family trooping in to console my parents, with everyone offering clues. My father had thought about placing a telephone call to Awka to inform his mother of my disappearance, but perished the idea when he realized that my grandmother may, out of panic and distress fall into some sort of sickness from worrying. My grandmother did not have a telephone in her home, and the only source of communicating to her by telephone was through one of the only few telephone lines in Awka that was in an old uncle’s home a stone’s throw away from her home.
This telephone was in the home of Mr. Wilfred Okafo Udeozo a renowned colonial day surveyor who worked with the British colonial administration in mapping out the surveying of the old cities of Lagos, Ibadan, Lokoja, and many other prominent cities in pre-independence Nigeria. Uncle Wilfred who was fondly called WO by many, was the father of very successful sons; Kanayo, Beka, and Ako. Kanayo was the brilliant professor of medical pathology. Whenever my father needed to speak to his mother, he would place a call ahead, and my grandmother would, at an appointed time, walk to the home of WO to receive the call. My father, filled with worry about his missing son, began to ponder all possibilities. He recalled how growing up, his mother, the heathen, had adopted the power of clairvoyance in resolving many intriguing family issues. My father remembered how his mother had predicted so many misfortunes that befell them growing up without a protective father. My father had told me stories about how his mother using her supernatural abilities had perceived that a leopard was coming to steal one of her goats, and how this, within a fortnight, came to pass. Even as my father was almost a faithless person, he thought of his mother as possessing supernatural power and the ability to perceive and predict events in the future and beyond normal.
My father telling me this story with a glint in his eyes, and without looking at me directly as he was wont to do often, perhaps due to his teaching to me to believe only the things that I can see or that which I can verify as he thought that he might be contradicting himself. But he continued to narrate the story of his mother’s supernatural powers, about the leopard and the goat. At about 2am, my father whose room was closer to the barn where the goats were housed, was awaken by the loud bleat of the goats. He ventured outside in the dark that was lit brightly by the glow from the moonlight, and behold, he was face-to-face with a huge leopard that had captured one of his mother’s goats and was heading to the dwarf fence for a quick escape with the prey. My father made a swift move for his dane gun, but the leopard and the young buckling were long gone.
Instantly, my father made a quick recollection of his mother’s predictions, and began to uphold, with tenacity, her supernatural prowess and powers. Recalling his mother’s long-standing gift of cartomancy that she displayed with the use of certain types of her effigies with strong divinations, my father picked up his telephone and placed a call to his mother through uncle WO’s house.
Knowing my father, and his strong sense of epistemology, the truthful coincidence of reality with desperation, banished his skepticism and doubts about things of the absurd. He needed to find his son, even if it meant dining with the devil. This, without any doubt, created a massive conflict in my father’s life. Following his progressive radicalization with the fight for independence from the hands of the evil colonizers, who with one hand brought us the Bible, and with the other, chains, shackles and whips, my father stopped going to church. He also discarded his English name, Charles and forbade anyone from calling him that “slave name”. He equally did not believe in native magical powers – those belief systems performed by herbalists as juju that are assumed to be powerful. He once told me that these powers are useless and can affect you only when you partake in them, or ingest their concoctions. My mother who was the daughter of a Pastor and Church organist was not able to influence her husband with her ardent religiosity to practice good Christianity. In short, my father was faithless, and only believed that to do good was the better part of any religion.
When my grandmother set out to take her son’s call, I looked at her, and without saying a word, but with the slight swaying of my head and my eyes rolling, conveyed a strong message to her – a code of absolute silence on our joint conspiracy. My grandmother, as she was stepping out of the door, turned back and gave me a nod that reassured me that a quick return to Kano was not in the making. How could I be returned to Kano when the biggest traditional masquerades ceremony, Egwu Imoka, was about to commence in a few days? The Imo Awka Festival which features four major events, the Ede-Mmuo, Ogwu Oghugha, Egwu Opu-Eke and the Egwu Imo-Oka, showcased several kinds of masquerades parading the length and breath of the town for weeks preceding the final two days of the festival proper. This ancient cultural event that is celebrated annually is performed in order to venerate the gods of Imoka. The Imo-Oka shrine is symbolized by the troop of special white-bellied monkeys that are widely revered and respected as the messengers of the shrine, and the protectors of the Awka people.
My grandmother had explained with graphic detail the importance and essence of the Imoka Festival, as being celebrated by Awka people to appreciate the Imoka god, for her favours, and to demand and request for much better years, while thanking the god for shielding them from enemies, from external invasion, and to pray for peace, prosperity, bountiful harvest, and prosperous blacksmithing and gun-making. This is until today, one of the biggest and most important festivals in Igbo land, if not in Africa. It was one of the reasons why I timed my escape to Awka to be in the month of May, the month of the festival.
I was eagerly waiting by my grandmother’s gate to receive the news from Kano. As she appeared in the distance, walking slowly and regally towards her home, my eyes were gazed upon her face to detect any sign or signal that my hideout was leaked, and that an imminent return to Kano was on the table. I saw nothing, but a gaze of loyalty from Nneanyi. She walked with a slight breaking smile on her chubby face.
That evening, my grandmother had prepared dinner for just the two of us, and waited until nightfall to invite me to sit with her under the moonlight by the Obu outhouse. I got it. There was something very heartwarming about watching the moon at full bloom with a sumptuous dinner with one of one’s favourite persons. My grandmother had prepared one of my favourite native dishes, “ighalighali” and “ugbogili”. These condiments are particularly native to the Awka people. You could not eat one without the other, but only experts that are versed in their preparation can do justice to this meal combo. It consists of a tiny dark brown species of beans (Ighalighali) harvested fresh, and a specific type of pumpkin (Ugbogili) allowed to ripen to a point of good taste and colour. The combination of both items cooked timely with precision in palmoil, ukpaka, pepper, ogili and okpenye (the smelly species), salt and crayfish, explode on the pallet. My grandmother was the masterchef, the guru in this, and other departments of culinary matters.
As we sat down under the moon, and the aroma from the serving calabash bowl filled up the surrounding, I began to salivate with fluid dripping over my jaw. My grandmother must pray before we set out to eat, and this evening, her prayer was exceedingly long. With my eyes glued on the calabash, I listened attentively to her prayer, hoping that she might drop a hint about the phone call from Kano.
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My grandmother, her gods and I (1)
She began to pray about me, and what I meant to her, and to the world. Hear my grandmother: “Okechukwu nwam, do you know the meaning of your name… do you know and appreciate the essence of your life… and why our gods brought you to this home and bestowed on you such a beautiful name…?” I was going to speak even as I was ignorant of the answers to her rhetorical questions.
She continued: “… do you think that you just fell out of the trees and just happened to the great Anueyiagu family…, that the name you bear was just conjured out of the thin air, and has no significance and meaning…?” I still was at a loss, as at my age, I was yet not too certain about the full meaning and significance of my name. At this point, my stomach had begun to rumble from hunger and my saliva gland had dried up. I endured, and continued to listen to my grandmother’s prayer over our dinner.
“Okechukwu, our gods portion and, or creation – a creation who came from our gods… that is your sacred name, and a name reserved for very special servants of the gods, name of people who never do or know evil… You are a gift from God… do you know that every perfect and good things given are from above?” My grandmother’s wisdom and philosophical prowess began to shine through during this prayer. She looked sternly at my face and began to question me about the many gifts and privileges bestowed on me by God. Hear her again: “Okechukwu nwam, have you ever paused for one second to consider and marvel at the many gifts and abundance of blessings in your life?… the food you eat, the sun on your face, the moonlight in your eyes, the air you breathe, the love of family and friends are all great gifts from our creator.” My grandmother said these prayers and sermons with such passion that I still remember with clarity, every word that she uttered. Her words were enchanting and mesmerizing. She was a great philosopher that spoke with such euphonic breviloquence. Even as she indulged in using brevity of speech whenever she spoke, her pattern exposed demotic styles that simplified everything she said making it easy to comprehend her, even when she spoke in difficult native tongue and proverbs.
As I began at that point to appreciate the deep meaning of my name that no one had bothered to explain to me, the wisdom of my grandmother and my escape to Awka was beginning to be justified and make sense to me. We began to eat dinner, as my grandmother’s sermon continued to filter into my attentive ears and sinking deep into my inner soul. What stood out steady in my life from this sermon under the moonlight and over a plate of Awka delicacy, was when my grandmother told me that God remains unchanging even when we face pain and adversity, that we can always look for and receive God’s love and mercy in our life, and that God’s gift as exemplified in my name is perfectly and accurately laid out to sustain us anytime and anywhere. “Okechukwu, nwam, you are the gift of God, receive it with a heart full of praise and gratitude… and do good always”.
That was my grandmother’s final sermon to me that night. I went to bed that night with a stomach filled with a delicious meal, a soul filled with wisdom, and a brain that assured me of an uninterrupted Imo Oka Festival as my cover in my grandmother’s sanctuary remained unblown. I was totally enjoying the beautiful and simple life in the village and taking in the serenity of the choice for peace in the place of the chaos that the city of Kano was. It was such a wonderful experience to go to sleep and wake to the beautiful rising sun from the heart of the Eastern landscapes. Awka presented me with the best of everything, most especially joy and the opportunity to dwell and exist in my grandmother’s space with no rules, no boundaries, and no teachers, and with endless freedom to roam the entire villages and town on my own terms and time.
I woke up very early in the morning from the loud thunderous sounds of heavy rain that came with bright intermittent flashes of lightening which brought a burst of brightness that lit up my room. I stayed close and holding tight to my pillow, covering my eyes and ears with the bedsheets from the sounds and sights of the rain. The thunder violently shook the entire building and rattled the roof and wooden windows panes. I was frightened and thought about dashing to my grandmother’s room to seek shelter. But the rain subsided and my mind wondered off to the telephone call from Kano the night before and my grandmother’s denial and failure to disclose my presence at her home. I was conflicted. How could I reconcile my grandmother’s advocation for me to always tell the truth, and her cover-up? I had to confront her, if for nothing, but to obtain some clarity for her not telling the truth. I couldn’t wait for my grandmother to get out of bed, and once she did, I confronted her thus: “Nneanyi, ifutakwal, ilaru kwa mma” – Our mother, good morning, did you sleep well?” Before she could respond, I asked her why she lied to my father, why she disobeyed her gods and lied? She looked at me with certain unease and confusion. She began to walk away toward her kitchen and asking me if I wanted agidi or igba for breakfast. I ignored her and persisted with my question. She turned around and faced me, looking me straight in my eyes, and sensing the quiet but raw curiosity in my cautious voice, she calmly extended her gaze at me and greatly followed me by her slow but measured movement. She grabbed my arm and led me to sit with her on the mud-shaped bench by her door. She put her arm around my neck and began to speak to me.
“Okechukwu, I did it for us, I did it for your revered spirit and soul… you belong to this land of your brave ancestors – the land of dignified inheritance, of divine holiness… my gods want you here and not in that sinful city of uncircumcised unbelievers. You must grow up in the traditions of your forebears – those who came to prepare you for greatness… how can you learn the ways of your ancestors from the far-flung land of the godless ones?” As she spoke, tears began to flow from her eyes dropping on her shoeless feet. I held her closer and began to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She held me tighter and continued to speak. “I will raise you well … teach you the ways of our gods and they will protect you and give you strength and wisdom… I love you and will make sure you become a great man of valour and power.”
I rose from the mud bench and walked away from my grandmother not wanting her to see that I too was crying. I did not want to betray my weaknesses which as an eight year old boy, I had in abundance. That moment in time, marked yet the beginning of another extraordinary bond and relationship that highlighted the beauty of compassion and love between a grandmother and her grandson.
As the Imoka Festival in Awka was intensifying, the search for a missing boy entered frenzied moments in Kano, with my father moving from one police station to another, and my mother resorting to intensive fasting and prayers in our church, Saint Stephens Anglican Church, Sabon Gari, Kano. Without any care in the world, I had teamed up with various masquerade groups, setting off very early in the mornings visiting village squares, and returning very late in the evenings to a ready dinner, and to a well-deserved sleep.
(This Short Story Continues in Part III later)
- Okey Anueyiagu, a professor of political economy is the author of: Biafra, The Horrors of War, The Story of A Child Soldier.
