My grandmother, her gods and I
When I was about eight years old I had escaped from our home in Kano, and without a penny in my pocket began my journey by train to my ancestral hometown of Awka in the then serene Eastern Nigeria Province.
I was returning home to be with my beloved grandmother Igwego Dike, the matriarch of the Anueyiagu family and clan. Amongst the many reasons for this truancy of mine, the most astute, was the lure of the company of my grandmother, the spoils and comfort of her home and the delicate intricacies of her delicious home-cooking; the native sumptuousness of her Awka specialties – the kind of cooking from ancestral linages of long forgotten styles and tastes. These types of cooking from my grandmother’s kitchen, were the types you bit your tongue just from dreaming about eating them in your sleep. You could smell the aroma from a mile way without missing the potency of her secret ingredients and spices. There were things uniquely different from her cooking with any other. Even as my mother was touted as one of the best cooks ever, my grandmother’s style, until she took her last breath, remained unmatched.
The previous year, my parents had taken us to Awka to attend an uncle’s Ozo title-taking ceremonies. It was a spectacular trip as l witnessed the elaborate events of the initiation into the then revered Ozo Society. During this visit, I spent a considerable amount of time with my grandmother who lived in a modest bungalow next door to my father’s village home. I would sneak out from my room at nights and enter my grandmother’s house and was received with open arms by her. She would invite me into her bedroom which was filled with all types of things ranging from trunks that I was not sure of the contents, to discarded, but useful household utensils. My grandmother was definitely a hoarder, and did not see the need to dispose of anything, stressing that waste-not was the essence of living. Under her bed, I once discovered a half-corked bottle of Fanta that may have been there for many years. Even as she was very tidy and was a well-organized old lady, she had a lot of clutter and hoarding about her.
One of those nights, my grandmother told me to lie down next to her on her bed, right on the spot where some of her wares were. She began to show me her many treasures, and her small gods made of wooden effigies. She gave them names, mostly of deeply strange ancient sounding confusing names. The names all pointing to spiritual meaning in strengths and vigors with immense powers to protect whoever worshipped and feared them. I listened attentively as she explained the wonders and importance of these gods to her and to our entire linage. As she spoke with her beautiful and stern face shinning off the lantern sitting on a bed-side elevation, she took my right hand and placed my palm on her chest. The room was quiet with such eerie silence that I could feel and hear my grandmother’s heartbeat. The sound of her heartbeat filled the room, as she whispered softly in my ears these words: “Okechukwu nwam, you are the son of a Tiger, and the creation of our God of mercy… don’t you ever forget that in all that you do… be a great son of our great dynasty, and a good servant of mankind…” At that moment, I felt like there was a strong unbreakable string and an incredible bond holding and tying us together. Until this day, I feel like there was a divine purpose for her being my grandmother, and that our souls are still intertwined and eternally connected.
My solo journey from Kano to Awka began at about 6.00am just after I was fully dressed for school and had my breakfast. My breakfasts were usually very elaborate. My mother made sure that it was that way, as we did not have time for lunch at school. This particular morning, my breakfast consisted of akamu; that very delicious porridge of creamy ground and fermented corn pudding, with akara or kosai as the Hausa would call it. Akara is the oil – fried beancake balls made with peeled blended beans and spices, and a loaf of bread (from my mother’s legendary bakery), and one hard-boiled egg, capped with a cup of hot Ovaltine beverage. Placed alongside these, were one tin of evaporated Peak milk and a pack of Tate and Lyle cubes of sugar. The milk and sugar were generously used for the akamu and Ovaltine. I stepped out as if I was walking the short distance to the Ibo Union Elementary School down by Enugu road, but this time, I intentionally took the wrong turn to the train station. As I walked into the station with a straight and confident mien written all over my boyish face, my arrival was greeted with surprises by the attendants. I immediately invoked my father’s name and that of the station manager Mr. Obiano, who was a close family friend. I began to drop more names. I told them that my name was Okechukwu, and that I was named after my father’s best friend Dr. Okechukwu Ikejiani who together with my father, were the main brains behind the battle for Independence that was started by their partner, Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe. Dr. Ikejiani at that time, was the National Chairman of the Nigeria Railway Corporation. As I spoke and bamboozled the attendants, I walked straight into the First Class cabin of the train, and we were on our way to Enugu, Eastern Nigeria.
My journey on board the locomotive train was very spectacular. My face was glued to the window as I surveyed with immense pleasure, the breath-taking mostly flat and some undulating landscapes as we rode. Intermittently, l dozed off, only to be awaken by the polite and kind stewards who spoiled me with the luxuries reserved only for first class passengers.
We arrived the bustling train station in Enugu and I hopped off the train and walked the short distance to the Motor Park. I found a Leyland lorry loaded with goods that was headed to the seaport and trading city of Onitsha. I quickly climbed the high wooden sidesteps of the truck, and stowed away to my hometown, Awka. As this lorry did not have any stopover plans for Awka, l cleverly devised a disemberkment plan. Once we entered Awka and the truck began to have difficulties climbing the steep hills on the road, I jumped off the truck and trotted toward our home to the warm embrace of my grandmother.
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I arrived Awka to behold my grandmother seated in the middle of her compound surrounded by many of her gods, all adorned with distinct marks that distinguished their powers and duties. She was making loud incantations and worshipping these effigies made of carved woods and metal objects resembling scary spirits and ghosts. Igwego Dike was an ardent heathen who did not believe that Christianity was of any use to us Africans. She often wondered aloud about the efficacy of a foreign god to resolving African problems.
My grandmother believed so strongly in the lgbo cosmological adherence to the absolute existence of a Supreme Being, whether it was the great Imoka, the Ofufe, Habaa, Ntoko or the Amadioha. Like many other lgbo heathens, she followed an approach of accessibility to their various gods through personal mediation, and sometimes through other proxies like their revered High Priests.
In my grandmother, I found the assertion that the Igbo cosmology is highly stratified and yet, still personalistic with diverse inclinations. The Awka version as in many other Igbo versions was abounding in the prevalent presence of many feared and powerful household effigies that portray the strength and efficaciousness of each household’s direct access to their Supreme Creator. My grandmother who followed in this simple, but somewhat complex lgbo cosmology, found a converging way to, while upholding her personal autonomy, enforced with such dexterity, her independent and direct prebendal access to her gods.
My grandmother who valued her tradition, and looked up to her ancestors for direction and guidance in all that she did, and particularly in her worship of her gods, held on strongly to her IKENGA; a distinguished beautifully carved piece of wood. The Ikenga was a magical object that was a grand repository of divine spiritual meaning in her life. It was her Chi, a sacred and personal guardian angel. Her Ikenga represented the dignity of her life and that of her entire linage. She adored her Ikenga, and to it, she gave her best sacrifices of blood and meat of goats.
Whether it was a coincidence or not, my arrival to my grandmother’s home witnessed one of her big holy days when she feted her gods to a sacrifice of a hegoat. It was as if it was a ceremony to welcome one of her favourite grandsons. As if her gods were expecting me. She had killed the goat and sprinkled some of the blood on the gods that were strategically and sequentially placed around her shrine, an elevated alter of stone based structures built in the form of a modern fireplace with elongated supports that housed more scary looking effigies. Around the corner from the shrine, stood a fire pit stuffed with dry burning woods and charcoal to roast the goat meat. On the sides were wooden plates called okwa that contained roasted palmoil, ground fresh peppers, various spices andcondiments all mixed to create aromatic explosive flavors.
The goat meat was tender and delicious. Christians were forbidden from partaking in eating from the pagan’s sacrifice. My mother repeatedly warned me never to eat of that sacrilegious sin of feasting of the meat, but I would secretly eat the forbidden meat from my grandmother’s shrine. How could I deny my grandmother the pleasure of feeding me with her sacredly blessed feast, and besides, I was convinced that a little prayer to Jesus Christ, said shortly after swallowing the last piece of meat and licking my fingers dry of the palm oil and pepper, cleansed me of my sin until another day of sacrifice. I also reinforced my lack of lasting guilt by holding dear to my grandmother’s sermon to me that the God of Jesus Christ was the same God of her effigies. She convinced me that the fact that the white men brought their own God, should not make us discard and destroy our gods that have protected our ancestors for centuries. She preached this doctrine with fervor, and I was one of her followers. And, I was just only eight years old, and had just stowed away on the train and on a rickety lorry to be with my grandmother.
In the meantime, when I did not return home from school, my frantic parents had begun a search of the entire city of Kano for their missing son. The town was in a frenzy as my relatives, friends, teachers, together with the Police were conducting extensive search for me. One can only imagine the state of pain and anguish I must have caused my parents, especially my inconsolable poor mother. There was general panic in the town, as no one had any idea of my whereabouts.
Meanwhile, my day two in Awka was even more eventful as I accompanied my grandmother and her workers to the farm to harvest some yam and corn. We came home with baskets filled with farm produce; yam, corn, cocoyam, pumpkins, vegetables, fresh peppers, etc. At the farm, we made a wooden bonfire in which we roasted some yam and corn and a large animal called nchi, or grasscutter commonly called bushmeat today. We dipped the yam and the nchi in a bowl of palmoil mixed with red hot fresh peppers, salt and ukpaka, a seedy condiment with good aromatic flavours, and taste. During our lunch break, I listened to my grandmother’s deliberate narration of countless stories from the old; stories that were deeply reflective of our ancestry and told with such sweetness and aphorisms. From my grandmother, I discovered how she loved to import her wisdom through aphorisms. She cultivated pithy observations that contained general and versatile truth, but told with an aphorism, such as, “this fool has used his eyes to see his ears, and he has never owned a mirror.” My grandmother’s words of wisdom were keenly abstruse, but laced with such simpatico, and elements of a very likeable and an easy to get along with person with clear compatibility.
My Awka visit was getting more exciting as I observed my grandmother’s second outing with her gods. This early morning, she was making sacrifices to one of her gods named after her moniker, Atu Nnozo, the animal bigger and greater than the elephant. I believe that this animal must have belonged to the dinosaurs and such diverse group of huge reptiles that ruled the earth for millions of years. She placed Atu Nnozo in front of her shrine and began to pour praises and encomium to this huge god. She praised the god for preserving her life and the lives of her children and grandchildren. She grabbed a white cock that was tied to the stake next to her shrine, and using a sharp obejili, a razor-sharp knife, cut off the chicken’s head letting the blood drip all over the Atu Nnozo until it stopped bleeding.
This day of sacrifice was particularly a sad one, as l witnessed my grandmother doubt the efficacy of one of her gods. She had requested from this god to perform a duty that she had never asked for before. She did not ask for a favour of a bountiful harvest or for the protection of her family, but asked this powerful god to take the life of an enemy of the family, a tormentor who after the death of her husband, had encroached and confiscated one of her farm lands. Igwego Dike waited patiently and fruitlessly for this specific god to either visit this wicked man with a stroke or completely send him to the great beyond, but none of these occurrences happened. Instead, each time my grandmother saw this man, he was bouncing, looking more robust and still holding onto the stolen land.
On this particular day, while we were all gathered around my grandmother and her gods, with her pleading to this god to take her land-grabbing tormentor’s life, the land thief strolled into my grandmother’s compound with such gait, arrogance and steady strides, with the sight of a very fulfilled, healthy man. My grandmother at the sighting of this man, was enraged, and she picked up Atu Nnozo, the powerful but non-performing slow-to-act god, and using her sharp knife, chopped off this god’s head, and threw it into the burning fire. Abusing the powerless god, my grandmother picked up that same active and sharp knife and began to chase after the man. Despite her old age and slow gait, my grandmother displayed such remarkable celerity and an outstanding swiftness of movement in her pursuit of this tormentor of her family. As the chase ensued, she spared a few words for this worthless, barren and jejune god shouting in such a lugubrious voice, “… you useless and stupid god, get out of my way… let me perform the duty that I have sacrificed goats, chickens with my treasured gin and palmwine… and you have failed to act… I am going to kill this man myself since you have refused to act… instead you allow him to stroll with his protruding fat stomach into my home and before my sacred alter and shrine …”
The pusillanimous and cowardly land thief with my enraged grandmother clutching her sharp knife in tow, fled before my grandmother could reach him, and Atu Nnozo the non-performing god was instantly discarded headless in the burning fire.
My grandmother’s rituals and incantations before her gods and in front of her shrine, felt like an unraveling magic. I thought of it as a gathering of absolute divinity, and a coming together of an expression of care and love; a period devoted to making people joyful and happy, and for pleasing her gods in the beauty of their holiness.
As she raised the white cock up towards the sky, her eyes glazed and pointed heavenly, she would begin to pray for all the strong men in her life beginning with her first son, Uncle Davidson. Hear her: “… Nwude, Chuma (my father), Nnaemeke…, Georgi, Kenneti (Kenneth Onwuka Dike was her baby brother, who at that time had become a world-renowned Professor of History, and the first black to become Vice Chancellor (President) of the University College in Ibadan, Ekudo,… Onwu ga egbu unu, bia gbuo mu – the deaths that will kill any of you, should kill me instead- … onye shili na unu agara ebu ma baa, nkpunkpu kwanyaooo– those who impede your lives and prosperity, may he or she be afflicted by the disease of the hunchbacks… ise, ise ooo ka ngolu, ka ole… – as I have prayed it, so shall it be….”
She was not done. With a slight and slow dance of prestige and dignity called ojo in the Oka dialect, she would dance to a loud humming of an old local native tune toward the corners of the wall, where, I believe her late husband Anueyiagu Dilibe, the great warrior, was buried. There, she would stand above the grave pouring salutes to him, and cursing at the enemies that took the life of her brave and beloved husband at a very young age.
My grandmother had a brilliant mind, and she knew how to use her mind. She would always recognize the presence of me, a young virile Christian-child, and would temporarily, defer to my faith. She at some point in preaching her sermons about her heathen gods, will invoke the power of Jesus Christ. She would strongly stress that there was more that bound both religions than that which separated them – that her gods and the white man’s God were one and the same. This gave me some solace and venturesomeness which helped me to reconcile the homilies from the pulpits of both faiths as divinely the same, allowing me the guilt-free followership of my grandmother’s divinity.
(This short story continues in PART II later)
- Dr. Okey Anueyiagu, a professor of political economy is the author of Biafra, The Horrors of War, The Story of A Child Soldier.
