Goodnight Father

GOODNIGHT 

 FATHER

Chike Uzoma

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© 2012 by Chike Uzoma. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/03/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1406-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1405-2 (e)

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Contents

DEDICATION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

DEDICATION

To my sweet wife Chinagorom Uzoma,

and my lovely kids, Ideal, Nera and Worthy.

Chapter 1

A handful of women stood at the rear of Nnadi’s dwelling. They were cooking, and busying themselves with much noise. With pestles held firmly in their hands, they pounded different mortars of foo-foo. Many others stood at fire-stands passing comments here and there. The homestead was lit up with the frenzy of elated women, like the clustering of bees.

The guests had begun to arrive in trickle. They were seated under the canopy of palm fronds which stretched across thin pillars of wood. The shade was set outside the obi to defy the retiring evening sun, and to provide shelter for the villagers. Most of the old men clutched long handcrafted cow-horns, or roomy calabash cups. These had one thing in common. Soon, they would be recipients of an ever bubbling palm wine, ready to be gulped in draughts. The elders arrived, and made pleasantries, bantering and greeting with their feathered fan.

Native dancers sang and danced amidst fanfare and revelry. Music and dance filled the air, gripping everyone with its pulsating beats.

In a short time, the homestead filled with native folks. It was scintillating. Small masquerades played along the neatly weeded bush path. But the fearsome ones were strutting to and fro the homestead chasing children with long canes.

Back at the main ground, children stood behind the seated elders dancing and clapping. This event came once in a lifetime or never at all. As they wriggled and stamped their feet, the atmosphere was littered with dust and pulse. And women were screaming their applause, in symmetry of low and high pitches, and rising to a crescendo of yells made in their wonted rhythm. As the celebration went on, cola nuts and garden eggs flowed from seat to seat. They were natural beginner of things, but not without the worded blessing of the elders.

In a thrice, Nnadi emerged from the nearby bush with a band of ozo holders. They moved slowly as they entered in the midst of the crowd. The music and the shouts became even louder. Everyone stood clapping and trying to catch a glimpse of the entourage. Nnadi acknowledged the felicity and waved his colourful fan. Then he took his seat at the centre of the scene, surrounded by the few holders. They were getting set to wear him his long robes and festoon his waist with costly materials made by the Umunachi weavers.

They arranged all the paraphernalia of title. But just then, an old hairy man swaggered in. He wore a piece of dirty cloth, which he tied astride his crotch. On his right hand he held a clattering rod with a sharp tip. Bell-like plates were fixed to the rod by the fire of a blacksmith. It made clattering noises as he dragged the rod along. As the man moved, he struck the rod with a mild force. It jerked and shook as it stuck to the ground. His skin was draped with white and yellow chalk, drawing several blotches down his small hairy chest, his rotund belly and his dreary eyes. He walked sleepily. He drew close, and struck his rod again into the ground, left it there and walked into their midst. Everything came to a halt. All eyes were on him. Silence took over the moment.

He looked up. His eyes were red, his face full of perches of leaves and dust. He wore the looks of a mad man. Then he turned his face down, and began to utter some faint words but to no one. His teeth were besmirched with dirt. Pensive silence took hold on all. Everyone listened with curious ears. Minds agitated. Then he cleared his throat.

‘Abomination!’ he railed, his voice febrile but stern.

‘Evil!’

‘Terror!’

‘Tufia’, he spat out crushed colanut.

The silence became even more intense. Nnadi could not hold himself back any longer. He stood up and walked to the man.

‘Ezeala’, he called the man.

‘I greet you’.

Ezeala yelled again and spat out some fluid, and winced.

‘Come not further’, he ordered.

Nnadi gave a signal for him to take a seat.

‘Tufiaa’, he screamed again.

‘How can I give to a fool the sacrifice meant for the gods’.

Nnadi gazed at him, and blanched.

‘Speak to me in private Ezeala’, he pleaded. ‘Tell me, what has gone wrong?’

Nnadi was thoroughly beset. The shock of it sent cold shivers down his nerves.

‘What is the matter?’ he pleaded again. ‘Tell me, please’.

He knew Ezeala never came out of his shrine without strong words in his mouth.

‘You can…’

He was about to say something.

‘Get away from me’, Ezeala snapped.

He turned to the crowd and snorted out.

‘Amoka!’

‘Ojimara!’

‘Umuchogu!’

‘Odu!’

‘Eat from a pot of poison’

‘Drink from a keg of blood’

‘What is this you have done?’

‘Eat!’

‘Drink!’

‘Let your throat get longer’

‘Who can stop the lizard’

‘Falling from the Iroko tree?’

‘The pain is his own and not mine’

‘How can a rat go with the lizard to be beaten by rain?’

‘When the rain dries on the lizard’s skin, will the rat dry also?’

He shrugged heavily.

‘Abomination!’ he squealed again and looked up, peering into the retreating sun. Then he made a brisk walk back to his clattering rod, pulled it up, and walked away.

The crowed was petrified. It was a coded warning but clear to all. They could not ignore it and began to speed away. No sooner had Ezeala left than the villagers exit the homestead; in droves. As they walked away, they uttered no word, not one to another. The once bustling place suddenly became as quiet as the evil forest.

Nnadi was torn apart. He stood with his mouth agape. The food and drinks had been abandoned to rot. Mountains of foo-foo stood at the far end of the hut oozing out heat. Jars of palm wine sat beside his Obi vomiting bubbling white froth and turning themselves into a temporary hive for honey bees. Nnadi gazed into the sky, like he was looking for someone to ask a question. His eyes met with the early evening stars dotting the labyrinth of the sky. Many fast flying birds flew past, atop his head, returning to roost after the day’s adventure. He watched them disinterestedly as they took the huge flight in planned orchestration. He looked down again. But he was confronted with the painful reality of his bespectacled state. Even his wives and children could not understand anything. It was like a joke or a dream. They sat down ruminating over the naked truth. Emenike and Adamma sat at one end of the cluster of abandoned seats. Speechless, they bowed their heads and tucked their faces into the palm of their hands.

Nnadi did not realize he had stood like a pole for long, until his legs began to pain him. He shambled to the deserted canopy of woods and sat on a seat, looking askance and worn out. He turned his face toward the footpath. Perhaps these people could just suddenly return and the whole episode would turn out to be a dream. But it was a mere thought, a wishful imagination. He sat there and waited. Billows of thick darkness began to arrive as day grew into night.

Chapter 2

Adamma set out with Nneka to the stream. It was early in the morning just after cock crow. Resting on their heads were brownish earthen pots with two handles atop the tapered necks. They moved along the bush path that led into the sloppy, rocky waterfall, Ogbanokwute. At the far end of the spring, angry water gushed out from the rocks and splashed onto the surface. The sound of it was deafening, like a surge of great winds. Going down the undulating depth was an uphill task. Some portions were steep and slippery, so treacherous a slip could mean a headlong fall into the deep recesses of the water torrents. The surging water had carved for itself a regular path. Not many dared near the tumultuous waterfall, save the trained and accustomed feet. There was this daily danger of villagers falling off the rocks and being carried alive by the traveling water to the great beyond.

When they arrived at the waterfall, Adamma passed through a safe corner, which though was still steep and deep. But short plants and trees grew along the corridor of slopes offering them a grasp while negotiating down the rocky lowland. Villagers were washing clothes at one end of the roaring water. They pounded their cloths on smooth rocks. Then, Adamma left Nneka at a point and moved further in. Taking a vantage position, she dipped the pots, one at a time into the crystal-clear drinking water.

Nneka loved Ogbanokwute. The scenery mystified her a great deal. She wondered where the water emanated. Who was chasing it out of the rocks with such a great force? Everything here awed her and she never stopped observing the mystery—huge gale of water, gushing out of a big rock, splattering everywhere, traveling with speed into deep lands and forming themselves into small and big rivers. The villagers washed their clothes by the large river formed at one end of the waterfall. The river was divided naturally into two halves by thickets of tropical trees and swampy shrubs. One section was reserved for men only but the women used the farther end of the divide. They swam there, took their baths and also ret their cassava.

Nneka stood beside a big rock with her water pot on her head. Adamma had filled it for her younger sister. Nneka feared to go down the waterfall, preferring to stay beside a rock while Adamma went down to fetch drinking water. But she could find her way to the riverside where she swam. It was her favourite pastime.

Adamma went down to carry her own pot. She lifted the pot, placed it on her head and began to clamber up again. They began to journey home, scaling the hilly countryside. It was hard going up the hill with load on their heads. But they had been used to the trek.

They moved slowly and cautiously avoiding difficult places. In a while, they entered a safer section and resumed their chat. Many more trips awaited them. They would need to fetch as many times as to fill the big earthen pots half-buried in the soil at home. Later on, they would swim and bath in the river, when it would be warm enough. But in the meantime, it was pretty too early and too cold for a frolic.

Nneka turned and stared at Adamma. Then she said:

‘I don’t like Ezeala. He’s a wicked man’.

‘Sh-sh-sh’, Adamma shushed her, putting her left hand on her mouth. She was taken aback by Nneka’s effrontry.

‘He has many ears’ she cautioned.

‘But’, Nneka argued, ‘he is not here’.

Adamma turned again to her.

‘Haven’t you heard that Ezeala is not a human being? He can hear what you say even on your bed or far away in the farm?

Adamma meant every word and sounded out as much, in low but serious tone.

‘Well’, said Nneka, ‘I don’t care if he hears me. What will he do to me? See what he did to father. He just came and spoilt everything for us. If I had a matchet that day I would have cut off his head’.

She was bitter. But Adamma was afraid and cautioned her.

‘Keep your mouth shut… don’t talk,’ she reprimanded sharply, her voice still low and fearful.

‘Please, don’t call my name if he catches you,’ Adamma warned, exculpating herself, ‘I did not follow you!’

Adamma thought about Nneka’s comments. Nneka was right, she well agreed. She had as much resentment as Nneka for this man Ezeala, the priest of ala goddess. A lot of questions had gone on in her mind. He should have left her father to finish the ceremony, or he should have come earlier. But he chose to come the very time everything was set, in the middle of it all. She had often smarted over how all the food and drinks were thrown away that day. But she did not want to voice her anger for fear. The fear Ezeala was something she could not wish away.

‘Let’s leave that matter’, she said dismissively.

They moved on along the busy path, walking past several passers-by. Some were homebound while others were heading to the stream or farm. Just after a few steps further, they saw three girls coming from a distance ahead. They had empty water pots on their heads. Adamma quickly drew Nneka by the hand and said:

‘The troublemakers are coming. Let’s give way’.

Nneka resisted her.

‘Leave me, please. This is not their father’s road’, she spat.

Adamma moved to the very edge of the bush path.

‘Run away from devils, Nneka’, she warned.

‘Leave me, please’, Nneka retorted again. ‘Must we always run from these small crabs? Let them come here and push me out’.

She was defiant.

‘Have you forgotten’ warned Adamma, ‘that mother told us to be careful?’

Nneka frowned, contorting her fair countenance.

‘With your eyes you can see that I am on my own. Do you see me making any trouble, eh?’

It was not long thereafter, the girls drew close. They came nearer, and joined their arms together, covering the entire space. It was a ploy to block the way and dislodge the two girls. Adamma quickly understood it. She dodged them and walked through the outer strip of the bush. But Nneka refused to follow suit. She stood there looking angrily at the invading girls. She wiped off the water dripping down from the pot to her face. The girls drew closer. They came menacingly at Nneka and shoved her aside violently. Her water pot tumbled on her head as she made to fall. She struggled to regain her balance, battling between the water pot and a huge fall. But she managed to stabilize. But before then, half of the water had spilled out. The girls laughed at her, all of them standing pugnaciously. Nneka tried to drop her pot to go after them but Adamma quickly ran back and restrained her.

‘Nneka,’ rebuked Adamma, ‘leave these people and let’s go home’.

She held Nneka tight and pulled her away. Nneka could not be placated. She was scuffling with Adamma to break loose from her grip.

‘You will break my waterpot’, Adamma warned sternly. ‘Let’s go home now’.

Adamma did not want Nneka to engage in a fight. Three girls to two was not a