My Igbo magical years: A short story (1)
By Okey Anueyiagu
As I sat on the ikpo, the smoothly structured mound of brown mud-seater overlooking my grandmother’s sacred shrine, awaiting my breakfast of mkpulukpu ji and a mass of ground fresh hot pepper mixed with ukpaka in red oil – the rounded, miniature yam and other local condiments, the early morning sun rose brightly to my face.
The bright rays of the sun hitting my tired face, spread a radiant sparkle of sweetness that heralded my morning. As I was savouring this, I began to hear in the distance, some discordant sounds of people singing songs that resembled war-songs, but sang by softer voices I suspected were those of young girls. As the sound moved closer, it became obvious to me, that some things were amiss.
Within a short moment the train of the singing group had made a stop at the Amudo village square right opposite my grandmother’s house. I dashed out to behold what the commotion was all about. A group of young girls numbering over 50 and some equally young boys gathered at this village square, and in their midst was a young girl who I believe must have been no more than 14 years or so. This girl was completely stripped naked with her body drenched in ashes and soot. Her nakedness was only adorned by a few strings of raffia leaves and ropes tied around her waist.
On these ropes were about five newly hatched chicks, and in her right hand, she was clutching the mother hen that I believe was the mother of the chicks. Underneath the cacophonies of the singing and chattering of the young girls, were the clucking and chirpings of the hen and her babies.
READ ALSO: My Igbo magical years: A prelude
The naked young lady had been caught stealing the hen and the chicks early that morning from a neighbour’s home in the village. She was to be summarily subjected to the ancient Awka treatment reserved for young thieves – it was called ogbanajilija.
This young girl whose name was Nkoli, was a village beauty. Her looks from head to her toe was simply enchanting. Nkoli’s kind of beauty was natural and carried a clean definition that set her apart from many of the young girls in the village. She had a strong long nose, and cheekbones that made her face look proportionally chiseled. Her entire body had such subtle perfection that when she smiled, the heavens opened.
Nkoli and I had crossed paths at the stream a few times. A glance at her beauty melted my heart. She was shy and never looked me in the eyes whenever I spoke to her. She was a few years older than me, but that didn’t stop me from making a pass at her. The last time I had encountered her at the Nwannu stream, I called her my girlfriend. She looked away, blushing and took off running. I had my eyes on her, and was deploying all my city-boy charm in plotting for a conquest. And today, in the village square, the village queen had been crowned a thief. I was devastated and stupefied.
I was about to witness an incredible spectacle: a young girl in full nakedness standing before me with her entire body outstretched and shinning off the morning bright sun. I was bewitched as the sun continued its slow movement across the sky, and unable to drown the dark shadows cast by the mob chanting war songs about the chicken thief.
There I stood in front of Nkoli with such discomfort and bewilderment. Even though I was still a very young boy, I was wise to a whole lot of adult issues. Suddenly, she looked up and saw me right in front of her stark nakedness. A rush of shame overtook her countenance, as she quickly lowered her gaze and began to cry loudly.
Every day that passes, the memories of that day come up, appearing before me as I recognize the pathetic image of it as a blend of confusion and excitement. The mental picture of Nkoli’s naked body became real and took on an existence of its own, giving me pleasure, and at the same time, horror that at that instance welled up inside me.
As Nkoli continued to cry and sob, her voice carried with it a feeling and sense of deep and indignant penetrable pain, anguish and torment. She came by this disposition with an absolute resolution to her unfortunate predicament. At that fleeting moment in her life, the tension between light and darkness presented itself in equal measure, exposing the inner villainous menacing beasties of the perceived excesses of our cultural and societal imperatives.
As the effulgence of the sun shone off the naked body of Nkoli and cascading through her stiff and succulent-looking breast, and down to her sunken navel and by her pubic area, I felt a rush of voyeurism come over me. I was instinctively ogling and gaining sexual pleasure from watching a naked girl willfully paraded by a troubled society.
Despite the attenuating and morass circumstances of that moment, I was completely embarrassed, but must report that I felt a certain pleasurable and seemingly unavoidable excitement. I began to feel a bulge grow in-between my two legs – I was having an erection. I was particularly troubled by this reaction, but I guess that human nature took control of my poor mind and decadent soul, and also of my wretched body.
At that moment I felt a disparaging feeling of uncouthness – a feeling reserved for dogs that have no false modesty, no shame – that will defecate and fornicate whenever and wherever it pleases them. Yet that bulge from my privates continued to grow causing an embarrassing protrusion and pushing my zippers to the seams.
As the mob continued in the almost non-violent assault of Nkoli by shoving and pushing her around, the crescendo of the singing grew. The more they pushed her around, the more her body parts jingled exposing the curvaceous beauty of her entire structure. Her full breast stood still but moved around effortlessly sideward and all around. They began to lead her away from the village square to the neighboring village of Umuzocha with the frenzied mob singing, screeching, and pouring more ash and sand on her. I followed the mob and was starting to feel angry even as I was a lone voice at that point.
All of a sudden in this melee, something that banished my sexual pleasure occurred. It was a reality that overlayed my initial sexual excitement – an unexpected blend of confusion, fear and anger. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed a young but vicious looking girl clutching a small calabash of a blend of ground mixed fresh peppers. She was scooping this hot pepper mixture and attempting to insert a chunk of it in the vagina of Nkoli. As she was performing this wicked act, the mob went into a frenzy holding Nkoli’s legs apart as she struggled fruitlessly to resist this carnage.
I could not take the assault any longer. I quickly dashed in front of the mob pushing away and dislodging them. I removed my shirt and used it to cover some parts of Nkoli’s nakedness. From my waist and stashed in the sheaths were my two double-edged daggers that followed me everywhere from when I was about eight years old.
Growing up in the Northern city of Kano I had obtained a reputation of a dan iska – a troublesome son of the thin air. I was a bloody nuisance who courted trouble like a hobby. I had a long collection of my wuka maik kaifi biyi as the Hausa would call these dangerous knives. As I pulled Nkoli from the menacing mob, I pulled and brandished my dangerous blades ready to chop off somebody’s body part.
I moved Nkoli with rapid speed towards my grandmother’s house while clutching and waving the knives around. The mob kept a considerable distance from us chanting and raining insults and abuses at me. They quickly composed a song that sang about “Okechukwu the stranger from the North that has committed an abomination in Awka.” They sang that the sacrilege of my sin is unforgivable. I didn’t care, as I dragged the disgraced Nkoli away from the motley crowd.
The action I had just taken exposed my levity mixed with guilt, and was beginning to also wreck my efforts and my error in judgment. I suddenly realized that I had taken a huge risk, even as I was confident of my passionate pursuit of a moral rectitude and a quest to correct the ills of our archaic society. I was a fervent idealist who always yearned for justice. As I pulled Nkoli away, I brooded over the consequences of the taboo that I had just committed.
The sun had risen with an intense, clammy heat beneath the hovering palm trees, and my sudden unbearable anguish began to make my chest heave and pant as I pulled Nkoli closer to safety. As we approach my grandmother’s house, the huge carved mahogany wooden gate stood before us. From amongst many of my memories of this event is the image of this gate.
This huge gate that stood at over 15 feet high was made of two swinging panels of strong woods with carving on both sides. What stood this gate out and why it was sustained in my memory was the artistic ingenuity that accompanied its production. Awka was the home of carvers, blacksmiths and ironmongery experts, and the evidence of these crafts were prominent in the vitality of this gate. The carvings of motifs that adorned this wooden gate belonged in the museum. Unfortunately, this gate and its historical beauty and memories were destroyed by the vandals of the Nigerian Army in the Biafra war.
I dragged Nkoli through the gate and shut out the menacing mob. They stayed within a distance and continued chanting, singing and hurling insults at me. My grandmother with worry on her face, rose from her shrine and grabbed Nkoli by her hand, consoling her, handed her over to her two lady helpers instructing them to go give her a thorough bath. My grandmother took one look at me, and without uttering a word returned to her shrine to perform her prayers.
(The Part II of this short story follows on Thursday, October 13, 2025)
- Okey Anueyiagu, a Professor of Political Economy, is the Author of: Biafra, The Horrors of War, The Story of A Child Soldier
