It was still dark when they started on their winding, red-earthed journey to Onitsha. The late night stars had withdrawn from above and were now well hidden behind the tangled foliage of trees and the looming clouds. The grey mist of dawn lay so heavily upon the horizon that it was impossible to see beyond a few yards.
The silence was profound. The night animals had gone into hiding and the day ones were still reluctant to come out into the open to start their early morning business. Ojebeta and her brother were not unaware of the animals’ sleepy movements in the thick walls of the green forest as the subdued noise of their footsteps startled one or two creatures into temporary wakefulness. Except for these minor signs of activity, there was stillness everywhere. As they padded through the bush tracks, they seemed to be entering the very belly of the earth. It was as if they were being gradually but nonetheless determinedly swallowed by a dark, mysterious, all-green world, the walls of which were enveloping them, fencing them in, closing them up. Overhead hung the tangled branches of huge tropical trees, on both sides of them were large leaves, creeping plants and enormous tree-trunks, all entwined together to form this impenetrable dark green grove.
The foot track they were following was like a thin red snake hemmed in by the two sides of this green presence so that they could not even see its head, because that end was blocked by the meeting of the two green walls ahead.
By the time they had passed all the huts, their red earth track was fast thinning into a mere bush path. Still they padded, and without speaking. The silence of their surroundings had affected Ojebeta somewhat. Gone were her usual bird-like prattles, her bat-like bumping into things, her teasing of adults. She felt that she was in the presence of a Power mysterious. She felt that she was being watched by that hushed, hidden someone. Had she ever been taught how, her reaction might have been to kneel and pray to that lurking Power who had made the plants so lush, the animals so quiet, the stars so retiring. But she was not Christian; neither was her big brother Okolie, though she sensed his need for silence now too, and knew somehow that the feeling was mutual. She tried hard, and effectively, to subdue the jangling sounds made by the little bells and the empty tobacco tins tied round her arms.
The trekked for what seemed ages until they came to the stream. Here at least they were in the presence of something moving. Clear, glistening water tumbled among tiny rocks and washed the small green plants by the bank. The fact that the area was a kind of clearing which allowed a direct view of the sky, a gap in the green canopy, added to the feeling of openness.
“We must wash,” Okolie said, and ran down the slope that led to the stream without looking behind him to find out if his sister was following. His voice, even to himself, sounded alien and unused.
The movements of the waters made the stream sparkle like the pieces of imitation silver their mother used to buy from Onitsha on big market days. Ojebeta remembered being told how those shiny bits of metal were brought there from Bonny and from Benin, and it was said that they were brought by some people from across the sea.
She gazed at the undergrowth, all bright and fresh, at the water that splashed over jutting rocks and small stones, and at the silvery-white sands in the bathing areas where there were no pebbles. It all looked so pure and so clean, cleaner than she could ever have imagined possible at the usually very busy Atakpo stream. She was so taken aback by the purity of it all that she hated to disturb it by wading in to have a wash. Encouraged by her brother’s voice, she asked the question that all of a sudden formed in her mind.
“Why is the water so pure and clean?” Her voice was rather loud, and a nearby frog protested by starting to croak furiously, so much so that it awakened several others who joined in the chorus until the stream was filled with the croaky wailings of frogs.
Okolie looked at her accusingly as if to say, “See what you have done?” Nonetheless he replied patiently to her question. “It is because there is no one about yet. We are the first people to disturb its calm.”
She thought about this answer for a while and was puzzled at its correctness. Why, had not her mother, her friends, even all the professional storytellers of Ibuza told her that when they and all humans were asleep the people of the dead—Ndi-Nmo—took over? They came to the stream at night to wash themselves and their clothes, just like the living humans did in the day. And when the first cock crowed, they disappeared and returned to their natural habitat, the land of the dead. If that was so, thought Ojebeta, surely they would have left the stream a little disturbed?
“What of the people of the dead?” she piped now. “They must have been using the stream all night, when we were sleeping. I know that my mother and all those people killed off by the felenza cannot go one day without having a bath. Surely Mother must have been to have her daily bath, even though she has died? I saw the burial. They put all her cooking pots and washing calabashes in her burial mat. My big mother Uteh even put a great calabash of soap in it, so that Mother wouldn’t lack any.”
Her brother stopped in his tracks, looked at Ojebeta thoughtfully and said reassuringly: “The people of the dead are not as dirty and noisy as we are. The don’t go about disturbing the peace or stirring up mud. They float, almost like birds.” Then he added, with a little authority, and indicating that he would rather not be asked any more questions on the subject, “Have your bath: I’m going to the men’s bathing place. You must hurry.”
With that he waded his way noisily across the shallow stream, stirring up more of the otherwise peaceful mud in his wake so that there was a distinctive cloudy line behind him. He disappeared deeper into the green enclosure of the trees, several of which had branches that hung over and across the stream and joined with branches from trees on the other side, as if in perpetual handshake.
Ojebeta stood wondering what it would be like to go into the men’s bathing place. She would have liked a glimpse of what it was that the men kept there in such a secret place. Why did they have to go so deep into the dark belly of the forest to bathe, when women and children made do with this open place where the sand was clean and the water clear and shallow? She was not particularly keen on having her bath so early in the morning when almost all the rest of the world was still asleep. Where were they going anyway to warrant this secrecy, this early rising from their sleeping mats? Her brother had simply told her that they were going to see a relative of theirs living in Onitsha.
She had heard her mother mention this female relative once or twice, but it had been too vague for young Ojebeta to make out to which side of the family this person actually was related. All she knew was that this relative had had the effrontery to marry not only outside the town of Ibuza but completely outside her tribe. They said she married a man who came from over the salty waters. It was bad enough for an Ibuza woman to marry someone from Ogwashi or from Asaba, but when you went beyond that and married someone who did not even speak the Ibo language, then you were regarded as lost or even sold into slavery.
So now they were going to see this otherwise lost relative, but why? As Ojebeta waded reluctantly into the stream, she thought of the bad luck that had caused her to lose both her mother and father within such a short period of time. Involuntarily tears of self-pity and frustration welled up in her eyes, dropped down her cheeks and then into the morning water. There were so many things she wanted answers to; but she sensed that her brother, who was now her most frequent companion, was too preoccupied with his own private problems to listen to her. Quite often these days he snapped at her and told her that her questions were childish. So she had begun holding conversations with her mother—had she not been told that the dead do see?—especially when she was as puzzled as she felt now.
“Why, Mother, am I going to see this woman—this Ma Palagada, or whatever her name is? She never came to visit us, not even when Father was alive. Why should I go to see her now, and maybe stay with her? I don’t want to stay away from home, away from where you and Father were buried. Mother, Father, answer me, both of you, please….”
She listened with both ears and with breath abated, but apart from the half-hearted early songs of birds and the now slowly rising croaks of frogs and the buzzing of water insects, there was no answer. Instead her brother’s head showed itself from the grove like the head of a tortoise coming out of its shell. He shouted at her, crossly:
“When will you start your wash? We’re going to Onitsha, you know, not to the farm.”
Quickly she threw her small cloth onto the bank, cupped some water over her body and began to rub herself with her palm. Okolie’s patience was by now exhausted, and he came towards her, hurriedly knotting his loin cloth like someone preparing for a fight, bent down to scoop up some sand from the bottom of the stream, and walked up to her.
“Bend down,” he said rather impatiently.
She obeyed at once, noting the irritation in his voice. He poured the fine sand on to her back and rubbed it gently all over, so that it pleasantly scratched the prickly heat rashes on her dark skin. Then he poured the cool water over her, and this gave her a refreshing feeling and she giggled. She sat deep in the water, wanting him to play with her. But he did not. He simply rinsed her newly shone hair which had been specially cut for this journey and said.
“Ojebeta, we must hurry. Do you hear me? We must hurry.” He looked about him for a few seconds, then exclaimed, “Look, I can see the sun peeping through the leaves already. It is going to be a very hot day.”
She looked in the direction where his finger was pointing and saw a new morning glow, whose seeming suddeness surprised her. Only minutes before it had been misty and grey, and now here was this golden sunshine lighting the little openings between the trees. She also noticed that now it was not only her friend the croaking frog that was awake; all things about her seemed infused with life. Various bush animals were trying out their morning voices; a bird or two began a song, to be answered from other hidden nests, until it all rose into a crescendo of sweet forest sounds, a kind of avalanche of musical calls.
He was right, her brother. If they were going to Onitsha, they should be on their way. She had never been there herself, though from what she had often heard her mother say, it could not be too far. Her mother when she used to go had to spend sufficient time there to sell her plantains and the palm oil she invariably had pressed from kernels the night before; but Ojebeta and her brother would not need to stay very long, for they had nothing to sell.
After her wash, Okolie picked up her small npe waist cloth which she had left by the bank, and after shaking off the clinging grass tied it round her. When she smiled her thanks, watching him tie his otuogwu in his usual toga fashion, he looked at her but did not return her smile. She sensed that all was not well in his mind but did not ask what. Even if he had told her of his financial worries, she would not have understood. Once more they resumed their path in silence.
The sun was now completely out, glowing bright in the sky. The silvery drops of water that had sparkled on the leaves like pieces of metal were now beginning to dry. Soon they came to an area where the bush track gradually widened, and instead of walls of green forest there was a sea of giant grass, dotted with a few cassava farms. The dazzling sunshine almost blinded Ojebeta, and she lagged behind, so that her brother was forced to slow down his big strides in order for her to catch up with him.
“Come, little sister, I will carry you on my shoulders,” he said with concern.
She shook her head defiantly, implying that she was capable of walking all the way, but Okolie knew that it was a poor show of reluctance to accept his offer. He knew that her feet must indeed be aching by now, even though her pride would not let her admit it. He smiled sadly. The thought of what he was planning to do to her began to nag at his mind and torment him again, however much he tried to suppress it. He was only doing the right thing, he told himself, the only possible thing. He had no alternative. He begged their dead parents to forgive him, but what else was there for a young bachelor like himself to do with a little sister of merely seven years of age? A spoilt child who was still sucking at her mother’s breast when all other children of her age had long been weaned? Mixed up with these feelings of self-justification was the conviction that he desperately needed whatever money came his way to prepare himself for his coming-of-age dance, one of the most important events in his age-group. He could not afford to do anything else….
He looked at Ojebeta again and, as if in compensation for his anticipated sins, he relented his critical thoughts of her and began to address her with her praise names.
“Come on, our beautiful visitor. Who has skin like that of the beautiful wives of the king of Idu? Who is the girl with the cleanest teeth in all the seven lands of the world? Who is our mother’s pet and our father’s heart? Who is my only sister, who originally came as a visitor but has now decided to stay? Come. Come and ride on your big brother’s shoulders, like the queen of the gods on her horse that is part human and part animal. Come!”
He stooped down for her like a man in deep supplication. His otuogwu spread right out as if it were the wing of a black guiding angel. The morning sun, rising behind him, added a heavenly touch of benevolence to the picture he made, kneeling there, beckoning his sister.
“Come,” he begged again.
She could no longer refuse. She ran into the protection of his wide arms. He gathered her into his otuogwu and his thin red lips spread into a sad smile as he hugged her on to his shoulder.
For that split second there was laughter, the type of happy laughter she used to know but which now seemed very rare: spontaneous and full of hope. It lasted for a brief moment, while her brother swung her from one broad shoulder to the other, until he made a pad on one of them with the knot of his cloth, for her to sit on with comfort. He walked quickly, galloping like a mighty horse, not very much aware of the plump little girl he was carrying away to be sold.
The sun was now directly overhead, and Okolie sweated as he covered the last few miles before boarding the canoe that would ferry them across the river to Onitsha. His sister had grown tired of talking to him from where she was sitting on his shoulder and had fallen asleep, exhausted by the length of the journey and by the fact that she had had no morning meal at all. Still Okolie hurried, the thudding sound of his footfall like that of his father before him. He too was becoming hungry, and although by the time he got to Ogbogonogo in Asaba the early food-sellers were already hawking themselves hoarse he decided not to delay. He must catch one of the early canoes owned by the Ijaws which were used to ferry market women on their way to the big Onitsha market.
By Cable Point, he was busy speculating about how much he was going to ask this relative, now very distant, to pay for Ogbanje Ojebeta. He had never sold anyone before, and now he persuaded himself that what he was about to do was not selling in its actual sense. He was giving his sister away into the keeping of this rich lady, and getting some money for her so that, when she grew up, she might be given to a suitable husband and could collect the bride price. Okolie was not unaware of the fact that he was not the eldest of his father’s two sons, but he reasoned to himself, “Where is Owezim now? He left when the felenza was at its height, and I alone was the one who had to gather up our father when he died; I alone had to cover our mother’s nakedness when she lay there dead on the mud floor. So I deserve to have the money I need so badly for my coming-of-age dance. What does it matter if I have to trade my sister to get it? She will be well looked after there, better than I can afford to do in Ibuza. Let her go. This is the only way she can survive and grow into adulthood.”
Another thought crossed his mind then. Suppose his sister was sold into slavery to the Potokis, and they took her away across the seas and he never saw her again? He deadened his conscience and reminded himself that the new white men who were now penetrating into their small towns and villages were trying hard to abolish that type of trade. People were not going missing as before. Okolie recollected how in his childhood many young women had been kidnapped in the middle of the night when they went out to their toilet. He could still remember his grandfather coming home with strings of captives after raiding neighbouring villages; some of the captives—the lucky ones—were kept as house slaves, but most of them were either taken down to Bonny or sold to people going to Idu. Those were the times when the human market was at its height. Not now. Nobody would dream of treating this little sister of his that way, because she was special. If it occurred to him that so might the little girls his grandfather had captured in other villages have been special to their people, Okolie stifled the idea. He had now worked his guilty conscience up to such an extent that he found himself running, hurrying to get it over with and forget about it. Life, he said under his breath to himself, is a chance. Ogbanje Ojebeta was now being offered a chance to make the best of her life.
“What is all this hurry and talking to yourself for so early in the day? I have been watching your approach and could not believe my eyes that it was you. And where are you carrying your sister to? Is she not well?”
Okolie in his rush and self-analysis had not seen his in-law Eze coming towards him. In fact he had deliberately set out from Ibuza early to avoid meeting market women whom he knew would start asking questions and maybe offering to take Ojebeta from him—though they would not have given him any money for her, which was what he wanted most. And if he dreaded meeting the Ibuza market women, the worst person on earth he could come across was this in-law of his.
Like many of their sex, the sons of Okwuekwu and their father himself when he was alive did not think much of this man who had had the audacity to marry a girl from their family. After all, Uteh was a beauty; and not only was she a beauty, but she was a daughter born along the Eke market. Yet she had condescended to marry this man with brown skin and eyes that watered all the time like those of wet chicks. His body was of the kind that after each bath looked as if he poured ashes over it. He was never healthy, neither in looks nor in reasoning. Uteh on the other hand had the jet-black skin of the family, and a small intelligent head with a very high forehead. When she walked her heels never reached the ground, only the balls of her feet. She was always standing straight and looking over people’s heads for she was tall, so narrow and her body so polished that she had the nickname of “the black snake that glides”. That she had deigned to marry this fool, however, had alienated her from her blood relatives, who said she had married the most idiotic person in the whole of Ibuza.
Of course, no one actually knew what else was expected of Uteh, since her father accepted the bride price before she was able to make any choice. And what obedient daughter of any family, good or bad, would be allowed to marry a man of her choice? She was only obeying her father’s instructions. Okwuekwu was then too young to have a say in such adult matters. And when the bride price was paid by her prospective husband’s people, Eze too was a youth and no one knew he would grow up to have short legs, ashy skin and eyes that watered. He was kind to Uteh, and that was all she wanted. It still pained her, however, that in important family matters in which the first daughter of the house ought to have been consulted they always ruled her out.
In fact she had been thinking of taking Ojebeta as her own child, the daughter she had never had. She had borne one son, in her younger days, but had never been pregnant again since then; rumour said it was because she was so narrow that she could not carry children. However, her husband Eze was so satisfied with her that he never even thought of getting himself another wife. This was one of the reasons why people thought him stupid, that he worshipped his woman and did not wish to expand his family. What man in his right senses would entrust his whole future to one son only, and at that a son who had been pampered and spoilt by his mother? He must be a stupid man. And since his wife Uteh visited the medicine man more frequently than was considered good for any woman, who was to say she was not mixing some concoction into his food so that he would have eyes for no one but her? Did one ever see a person with such eyes that watered all the time? So people speculated.
Eze, knowing the way people regarded him, at times tended to act somewhat comically just to attract a little respect, but it was always done in such an unorthodox way that all he did for himself was to attract more ridicule. After a while, though, he stopped caring, and rested content to be himself, which meant speaking the truth as tactlessly as he liked, not minding if others laughed and called him “River Niger eye”.
Now here he stood in the middle of the road and demanded to know where Okolie was going with his sleeping sister.
“We are going on a very important errand to Onitsha,” faltered Okolie, “and we’re in a great hurry, otherwise we shall be late for the early canoes.”
Eze might have watery eyes but he did not have a watery brain. He was thinking. He screwed up his ashy face in such a way as to create a mass of lines like those formed by time. Though he was not a young man, he was by no means aged enough to have acquired such wrinkles: it was one of his comical faces. Then he spoke in a voice, again put on purposely, that sounded like a rabbit that was being strangled.
“And your little sister is part of this errand, too? I mean, is she going to say something at this urgent meeting that warranted your leaving Ibuza when everybody was still asleep?”
He looked up to him, his face still screwed up, standing with his bandy legs astride so that Okolie could not bypass him without a struggle. Okolie might be feet taller than him, but to him he was a child in arms, who was obviously not at ease with himself about this secret mission he was undertaking so early in the morning.
Okolie saw the situation. Making a clean breast of it would condemn him forever in the eyes of his people. They would stop calling him Okolie the son of Okwuekwu Oda, the best horn-blower in the Uloko age-group. They would instead call him Okolie who sold his sister for money. But he needed this money, he argued with himself. The only alternative to getting it this way would have been to go and steal, and that could result in anything, including death, for if you were caught stealing from another person the owner of the property could hit you with anything he could lay his hands on, even a cutlass. He did not want to work hard at farming, as most members of his age-group did to raise money for their outing preparations; not only would that take a long time but the work was too strenuous. Had not his late father always called him a good-for-nothing, with strong legs and hefty arms which he refused to put to proper use, fit only to go about blowing horn-pipes for funeral ceremonies and at bride departures? “What are those strong arms for, Okolie?” he used to ask. Often he would threaten his son, “You will not eat from the yam I worked for with my own sweat.” But having said that he would hasten to court to do his “Order” bit, and behind his back Okolie would convince his mother that he intended to improve his ways. His mother would relent, and give him hot pounded yam and spicy fish soup; and then Okolie would go out with his horn pipe under his cloth, in search of any celebrations in Ibuza. Now that both his parents were dead, he was left with a big farm that he did not know how to manage. Some small children had already started calling him “Okolie Ujo Ugbo”—Okolie the farm truant—for when other young men were out on their farms during the day he was seen walking about doing nothing. Sometimes he took consolation in his horn pipe, though who could enjoy blowing horn pipes when there was no audience to listen, no dancers to dance to the melody?
He would go back to the farm; but first he needed the money his sister would fetch, to see him through the beginning of another farming season and to buy a new horn pipe, and some women’s head-scarves which he would have to tie round his waist for the dance. He would also need strings of cowries and little bells for his feet. Essential too were large, colourful ostrich feathers to complete his Uloko outfit. He reasoned with himself now, did anyone ever come of age twice? It happened only once in one’s lifetime, and it was the duty of each person to make it as memorable as he could possibly afford. He looked again at this bandy-legged man standing in his path and his patience snapped.
“Move out of my way, you old tortoise, and let me pass.”
“No, Okolie, not before you let me take Ogbanje Ojebeta to her big mother, my wife Uteh. The way you are holding her, one would think you were going to sell her or something. But no blood brother would think of doing such a thing.”
Eze’s way of talking artificially slowly gave Okolie time to recover from the shock of being found out in advance. Putting on a bluff, he started to laugh, so heartily that Ojebeta woke up.
“No, in-law, you know that your wife is not the only big mother she has. You remember our relative Olopo who married a Kru man? She is very rich now. They say she has built many houses in Otu at Onitsha. She heard of all the mishaps that were befalling us, with everybody dying and sent me a messenger last market day to tell me that I should bring Ojebeta to Onitsha since she wished to see her and buy her this and that, to console her for the loss of her mother. That is why we are going to her. I am hurrying now so that I can catch the Ijaw canoes, and we shall be back in Ibuza in time for the evening meal. Ojebeta will stay with your wife, but first I want her to get over the loss of our mother. Remember they were so close that when she died we found Ojebeta lying across her and clinging to her breast? She has missed Mother so, haven’t you?” he asked his little sister, chucking her under the chin.
Ojebeta did not answer either way. She had scrambled down and was standing beside him, still drowsy, weary from the journey and from the lack of any sustenance that morning. Noon was fast approaching.
Okolie had calculated that they would be in Onitsha before noon. What he had not taken into account was that he was going to meet bandy-legged Eze with his searching questions. In turn, Okolie would have liked to enquire what he was going to Asaba to do at such an early hour, but he did not, for the explanation might be devious, as all Eze’s explanations were, and it was sure to be time-consuming as well.
Eze was thinking again, and whatever his thoughts were, they were apparently sad thoughts. He looked at Ojebeta and simply said to her: “Those who are born to survive will always survive. Your big mother will always welcome you, and the door of my hut is open always to you. The little pieces of yam you would eat would not be wanting in my hut. If you need anywhere to stay, come to us.”
With that he dipped his hand into the jute hunter’s bag that hung on his shoulder, brought out a piece of dried fish and gave it to her.
“Take this and break your fast with it.”
He walked away quickly, with no word for Okolie.
Okolie’s heart sank. Should he or should he not go ahead with his plans? But who wanted to be saddled with a little seven-year-old sister? And he did not want her living with Uteh, because he did not like Eze. No, let her go to Ma Palagada, and he would collect some money from her. Ogbanje Ojebeta’s fate was decided. She must be sold.
He pulled her as fast as he could and they ran the few remaining yards to the waterfront, and boarded the canoe that was to take them to the Onitsha market.