My Igbo magical years: A short story (2)
By Okey Anueyiagu
When the servants were done with bathing Nkoli and ridding her of all the accoutrements of shame with which the marauding girls had adorned her, she was ushered into the maids’ quarters from where I could still hear her loudly wailing and sobbing. The noise and chanting outside my grandmother’s gate was growing louder and more raucous. The now very angry mob was calling for my head and asking my grandmother to release Okechukwu the stupid stranger from Kano who defiled the customs of the land, to them.
I had prior to this incident wrestled with the cultural crossroad of our world – the clash of Western and African civilization. Even as a child who was baptized and almost forced by my ardently Christian mother to follow very strictly in the footsteps of the Christian doctrine, I struggled with the conflicts generated by their perspective nuances; their languages, religions, their ways of life, and especially, their cultures.
My father with deep perseverance, initiated me into the strong Igbo culture, while my mother was pulling me with all her strength, to her Christian religiosity. I was conflicted, but managed to find a near perfect balance between the two complicated worlds.
In observing the manner by which Nkoli’s truancy was being treated, my intercultural struggle became more evident. There were many sides to the Igbo culture that many upheld as appropriate that must be respected and obeyed. But I chose on this day, to be on the side of decency – on the side of fighting to banish an abhorrent culture that subjected a young girl to such ridicule.
As a young boy, my view of the world was surprisingly expansive and the dichotomy inherent in my perspective enhanced my knowledge and belief in what was right, and what was wrong. I was not inclined to being judgmental but was inquisitive enough to scrutinize and question the validity and essence of our culture and civilization.
My moments of oscillation about my faith and the doubts that existed in me about our traditions often clashed, leaving me to always question the certitude of who I was and what our culture meant to me. Despite all that I learnt from the deep wells of my father’s wisdom, and from the bowel of my mother’s spirituality, I, at my young age equipped myself with some skepticism about life and its happenstances.
As I write today about Nkoli’s dilemma, it appears that I have been completely seized by the story, and have also been thoroughly conscripted by the conflicting intricacies of it. I found myself totally ensconced in the upheavals and unpredictabilities of the outcome. And as I write, it is not difficult for me to understand and appreciate the value my story-telling efforts bring to traditional Igbo history, and how what I write about, commands some resonance and meaning to the Igbo people. I am not trying to draw a definitive form of vitality or a line between permissible cultures and those that are not, or about the old and the new, but to tell the story of the life of our people as it reflects to those of our ancestors.
READ ALSO: My Igbo magical years: A prelude
My Igbo magical years: A short story (1)
Meanwhile, on the other side of the gate, the agitated mob had increased the tempo of their anger, and had begun to nudge closer to the huge, strong and beautiful gate, pushing and rattling against it. At this point, my grandmother, the granddame of the entire town who was revered and feared by all and sundry, rose from her shrine – her place of solitary worship to confront the mob. I watched her walk slowly but majestically to her gate. There was no hurry in her gait. She opened the gate and stood in all her tall and huge frame in front of the riotous mob. She raise her right fist up, and with her left hand covered her mouth, a sign signifying absolute quietness. The mob responded with complete silence.
My grandmother, an unusually quiet woman, waited for a few minutes, and began to speak to the crowd in a soft but strong resolute voice. She asked the mob to take their matter to the village head for resolution. With that she turned, shut her gate and returned to her gods. The mob began to troop to the home of the village head known as the otachalu, the oldest male in the entire village.
I walked past my grandmother avoiding a glance at her. I couldn’t tell if she was upset with me as she kept a somber mien. My heart was heavy and my soul was filled with holes. I was worried about the consequences of my action. I went to my room and never left the room. Night time came and it began to rain heavily. The rain kept falling on my windowpanes, and as the midnight rain fell, I laid my soul down, hoping the winds that kept humming through the roof, could tell me that everything was going to be alright.
As I laid down tossing on the mud bed, and pondering after the events of the past day, I could feel the deep pain gathering around me. I laid awake with nothing left of me. I became a shadow under a broken life. The bravado was gone, and the pending trepidation lingered. I was frightened. I was a hallow vessel, and too tired to even cry. What will be my punishment for defiling the village customs and for disrupting properly constituted authority and the rule of law? Would the elders banish me forever from the village? As I kept pondering these possibilities, I fell asleep and began dreaming of being back in my home in Kano in the safe hands of my parents.
I was jarred up from my sleep by the extraordinarily loud sound of the metal gong and shriveling voice of the towncrier who deliberately, I think, positioned himself very close to the gate. The gong went, tintin kom tim kom, and his voice; ndi be anyi tetenu na ula, na okwu ofu bia lu ooo…. our people wake up from your slumber, there is a new talk in town … With these sounds, the towncrier went round the entire village from about 5am after the cock crowed to summon all to a meeting for that afternoon. I instantly knew that my matter had been tabled as a matter of urgency.
Moving slowly, I got up and sat on the bed using my two palms to hold tight to my ears in a failed attempt to shut-out the loud noise coming from the towncrier’s early morning announcement. Trembling all over, nervous twitches forced my eyes to stay shut. I was incredulous. I was unable to give vent to my fears nor control the inevitable convulsive gasps. The previous day’s activities had exhausted me. I tried to compose myself and unchain my mind from the impending doom. I stood up on my trembling legs, and remained clinged to my youthful energy, but with the sound of the towncrier’s gong and voice, my legs gave way. I sank to my knees.
I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door and without my permission, my grandmother let herself in. Noticing my state of mind, and with the towncrier’s announcement still sounding in the distance, my grandmother grabbed me very gently and spoke to me in a very soothing voice asking me to be a real man and face my matter with strength and fortitude. It didn’t matter to her that I was just still a boy. She admonished me for being downcast reminding me that I must be responsible for the actions that I took. As she left my room, she invited me to breakfast, and as she reminded me very wryly, that I may need it to face my village square defence appearance.
It had been a bad night for both Nkoli and myself. In my dream, the promise of freedom from the village judges was a temporary decoy. For Nkoli, the shame of the previous day was to linger for a lifetime. Her life was filled with anxiety not only about her abominable actions, but of her future. Would she ever be able to walk the pathways of the villages and towns without the scorns of the people?
Would any suitors ever ask for the hands of a thief in marriage? Her life was hanging precariously in a dangerous balance. She contemplated suicide – what was the point of living? Dispirited and drained of all pride, Nkoli stayed in the maids’ quarters, refusing to venture out, and refusing any food nor drink. I could still hear her loud sobs and wailings and my soul was troubled. The noise coming from Nkoli impinged on my consciousness with the vividness of the consequences of my unmerited involvement.
The commotions of the previous day, and the gratings around the village since then, would build up to a violent, orgasmic peak, then would stop completely, and then result in an arresting silence. But within my grandmother’s compound, Nkoli’s crying voice rose above everything else. Confusion was getting the better of me, and I began to feel my confidence weakening and dwindling. I did not figure out how to take responsibility for my action and wished I could be exonerated from the burden before Nkoli and myself.
(The Part III of this short story follows on Friday, November 14, 2025)
- Okey Anueyiagu, a Professor of Political Economy, is the author of: Biafra, The Horrors of War, The Story of A Child Soldier
