‘Oduche went with the rest.’
Ezeulu chose not to speak any more. His wife went away but soon returned with two brooms. She swept the hut with the palm-leaf broom and the immediate frontage of the obi with the longer and stronger bundle of okeakpa.
Obika came from his hut while she swept the outside and asked: ‘Do you sweep the iru-ezi nowadays? Where is Nwafo?’
‘No one is born with a broom in his hand,’ she replied testily and increased the volume of her singing. Because of the length of the broom she held and wielded it like a paddle. Ezeulu smiled to himself. When she had finished she gathered the sweepings into one heap and carried them into the plot of land on the right where she was going to plant cocoyams that season.
Akuebue planned to visit Ezeulu soon after the morning meal, to rejoice with him for his son’s new wife. But he had other important things to talk over with him and that was why he chose to go so early – before other visitors in search of palm wine filled the place. What Akuebue wanted to talk about was not new. They had talked about it many times before. But in the past few days Akuebue had begun to hear things which worried him greatly. It was all about Ezeulu’s third son, Oduche, whom he had sent to learn the secrets of the white man’s magic. Akuebue had doubted the sense in Ezeulu’s action from the very first but Ezeulu had persuaded him of its wisdom. But now it was being used by Ezeulu’s enemies to harm his name. People were asking: ‘If the Chief Priest of Ulu could send his son among people who kill and eat the sacred python and commit other evils what did he expect ordinary men and women to do? The lizard who threw confusion into his mother’s funeral rite did he expect outsiders to carry the burden of honouring his dead?’
And now Ezeulu’s first son had joined, albeit surreptitiously, his father’s opponents. He had gone to Akuebue on the previous day and asked him to go as Ezeulu’s best friend and speak to him without biting the words.
‘What is wrong?’
‘A man should hold his compound together, not plant dissension among his children.’ Whenever Edogo felt deeply he stammered agonizingly. He did so now.
‘I am listening.’
Edogo told him that the reason why Ezeulu sent Oduche to the new religion was to leave the way clear for Nwafo to become Chief Priest.
‘Who said so?’ asked Akuebue. But before Edogo could answer he added: ‘You speak about Nwafo and Oduche, what about you and Obika?’
‘Obika’s mind is not on such things – neither is mine.’
‘But Ulu does not ask if a man’s mind is on something or not. If he wants you he will get you. Even the one who has gone to the new religion, if Ulu wants him he will take him.’
‘That is true,’ said Edogo. ‘But what worries me is that my father makes Nwafo think he will be chosen. If tomorrow as you say Ulu chooses another person there will be strife in the family. My father will not be there then and it will all rattle around my own head.’
‘What you say is very true and I do not blame you for wanting to bale that water before it rises above the ankle.’ He thought about it for a while and added: ‘But I do not think there will be strife. Nwafo and Oduche come from the same woman. It is fortunate that you and Obika have not set your minds on it.’
‘But you know what Obika is,’ said Edogo. ‘He might wake up tomorrow morning and want it.’
The old man and his friend’s son talked for a long time. When Edogo finally rose to go (he had announced his intention to go three or four times before without getting up) Akuebue promised to talk to Ezeulu. He felt pity and a little contempt for the young man. Why could he not open his mouth like a man and say that he wanted to be priest instead of hiding behind Oduche and Obika? That was why Ezeulu never counted him among people. So he had hopes that the afa oracle would call his name when the day came? The fellow does not fall where his body might be picked up, he thought. It does not require an oracle to see that he is not the man for Chief Priest. A ripe maize can be told by merely looking at it.
And yet Akuebue felt sorry for Edogo. He knew how a man’s first son must feel to be pushed back so that the younger ones might come forward to receive favour. No doubt that was why in the first days of Umuaro, Ulu chose to give only one son to his Chief Priests, for seven generations.
On the way to the stream that morning the bride who had not seen many white singlets in her life was inclined to take too much interest in Oduche and the new religion which provided such marvels. To curb her enthusiasm jealous Ojiugo whispered into her ear that devotees of this new cult killed and ate the python. The bride who, like any other person in Umuaro, had heard of Oduche’s adventure with the python asked anxiously:
‘Did he kill it? We were told he only put it in his box.’
Unfortunately Ojiugo was one of those people who could never whisper, and what she said reached Oduche’s ears. He immediately rushed at Ojiugo and, in the words of Nwafo when he recounted the incident later, gave her thunder on the face. Whereupon Ojiugo virtually threw down her pot and attacked Oduche using the metal bangle on her wrists to give edge to her blows. Oduche replied with even more fiery slaps and a final, vicious blow with his knee on Ojiugo’s belly. This brought great criticism and even abuse on Oduche from many of the people who had gathered to help separate them. But Ojiugo clung to her half-brother crying: ‘Kill me today. You must kill me. Do you hear me, Eater of python? You must kill me.’ She bit one of the people trying to hold her back and scratched another.
‘Leave her alone,’ said one of the women in exasperation. ‘If she wants to be killed then let her.’
‘Don’t talk like that. Were you not here when he nearly killed her with a kick in the belly?’
‘Hasn’t she hit him enough for it already?’ asked a third.
‘No, she hasn’t,’ said the second woman. ‘I think he is one of those who become brave when they see a woman.’
The crowd was immediately divided between supporters of Ojiugo and those who thought she had already revenged herself sufficiently. These latter now urged Oduche to hurry away to the stream and not listen any more to Ojiugo’s abuse or try to answer back.
‘The offspring of a hawk cannot fail to devour chicks,’ said Oyilidie, whom Ojiugo had bitten. ‘This one resembles her mother in stubbornness.’
‘Should she have resembled your mother then?’ This came from Ojinika a broad-looking woman who had an old quarrel with Oyilidie. People said that in spite of Ojinika’s tough appearance and the speed with which she flew into quarrels her strength was only in her mouth and a child of two could knock her down with its breath.
‘Don’t open your rotten mouth near me, do you hear?’ said Oyilidie. ‘Or I shall beat okro seeds out of your mouth. Perhaps you have forgotten…’
‘Go and eat shit,’ shouted Ojinika. The two were already measuring themselves against each other, standing on tiptoe and chests thrust out.
‘What is wrong with these two?’ asked another woman. ‘Give way and let me pass.’
Ojiugo was still sobbing when she reached home. Nwafo and Oduche had returned earlier but Ojiugo’s mother had disdained asking them about the others. When she saw Ojiugo coming in she wanted to ask her if they had had to wait for the stream to return from a journey or wake up from sleep. But the words dried in her mouth.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked instead. Ojiugo increased her snivelling. Her mother helped her put down her water pot and asked again what was wrong. Before she said anything Ojiugo first went inside their hut, sat down on the floor and wiped her eyes. Then she told her story. Matefi examined her daughter’s face and saw what looked like the weal left by Oduche’s five fingers. She immediately raised her voice in protest and lamentation so that all the neighbourhood might hear.
Ezeulu walked as unhurriedly as he could into the inner compound and asked what all the noise was about. Matefi wailed louder.
‘Shut your mouth,’ Ezeulu commanded.
‘You tell me to shut my mouth,’ screamed Matefi, ‘when Oduche takes my
daughter to the stream and beats her to death. How can I shut my mouth when they bring back a corpse to me. Go and look at her face; the fellow’s five fingers…’ Her voice had risen till it reverberated in the brain.
‘I say shut your mouth! Are you mad?’
Matefi stopped her screaming. She moaned resignedly: ‘I have shut my mouth. Why should I not shut my mouth? After all Oduche is Ugoye’s son. Yes, Matefi must shut her mouth.’
‘Let nobody call my name there!’ shouted the other wife as she came out from her hut where she had sat as though all the noise in the compound came from a distant clan. ‘I say let nobody mention my name at all.’
‘You, shut your mouth,’ said Ezeulu, turning to her; ‘nobody has called your name.’
‘Did you not hear her calling my name?’
‘And if she did?… Go and jump on her back if you can.’
Ugoye grumbled and returned to her hut.
‘Oduche!’
‘E-e-h.’
‘Come out here!’
Oduche came out from his mother’s hut.
‘What is all this noise about?’ asked Ezeulu.
‘Ask Ojiugo and her mother.’
‘I am asking you. And don’t you tell me to ask another or a dog will lick your eyes this morning. When did you people learn to fling words in my face?’ He looked round at them all, his manner changed to that of a crouching leopard. ‘Let one of you open his mouth and make fim again and I will teach him that a man does not talk when masked spirits speak.’ He looked round again, daring anyone to open his mouth. There was silence all round and he turned and went back to his obi, anger having smothered his interest in the cause of the affray.
Akuebue’s haste in plunging into the subject of Oduche proved to be ill-judged. He was anxious to finish with it before more people arrived, for there could be no doubt that quite soon the three compounds would be filled. Many of the people who came last night would come again, and many more would be coming for the first time because at this hungry season when most barns were empty of all but seed-yams no one would miss the chance of biting a morsel and drinking a horn in the house of a wealthy man. Akuebue knew that as soon as the first man arrived he could no longer talk with Ezeulu; so he wasted no time. Had he known how much Ezeulu had just been annoyed perhaps he would have waited for another day.
Ezeulu listened silently to him, holding back with both hands the mounting irritation he felt.
‘Have you finished?’ he asked when Akuebue ceased talking.
‘Yes, I have finished.’
‘I salute you.’ He was not looking at his guest but vaguely at the threshold. ‘I cannot say that I blame you; you have said nothing that a man could be blamed for saying to his friend. I am not blind and I am not deaf either. I know that Umuaro is divided and confused and I know that some people are holding secret meetings to persuade others that I am the cause of the trouble. But why should that remove sleep from my eyes? These things are not new and they will follow where the others have gone. When the rain comes it will be five years since this same man told a secret meeting in his house that if Ulu failed to fight in their blameful war they would unseat him. We are still waiting, Ulu and I, for him to come and unseat us. What annoys me is not that an overblown fool dangling empty testicles should forget himself because wealth entered his house by mistake; no, what annoys me is that the cowardly priest of Idemili should hide behind him and urge him on.’
‘It is jealousy,’ said Akuebue.
‘Jealousy for what? I am not the first Ezeulu in Umuaro, he is not the first Ezidemili. If his father and his father’s father and all the others before them were not jealous of my fathers why should he be of me? No, it is not jealousy but foolishness; the kind that puts its head into the pot. But if it is jealousy, let him go on. The fly that perches on a mound of dung may strut around as it likes, it cannot move the mound.’
‘Everybody knows these two,’ said Akuebue. ‘We all know that if they knew the way to Ani-Mmo they would go to quarrel with our ancestors for giving the priesthood of Ulu to Umuachala and not to their own village. I am not troubled about them. What troubles me is what the whole clan is saying.’
‘Who tells the clan what it says? What does the clan know? Sometimes, Akuebue, you make me laugh. You were here – or had you not been born then – when the clan chose to go to war with Okperi over a piece of land which did not belong to us. Did I not stand up then and tell Umuaro what would happen to them? And who was right in the end? What I said, did it happen or did it not?’
Akuebue did not answer.
‘Every word happened as I said it would.’
‘I do not doubt that,’ said Akuebue and, in a sudden access of impatience and recklessness, added, ‘but you forget one thing: that no man however great can win judgement against a clan. You may think you did in that land dispute but you are wrong. Umuaro will always say that you betrayed them before the white man. And they will say that you are betraying them again today by sending your son to join in desecrating the land.’
Ezeulu’s reply to this showed Akuebue once again that even to his best friend the priest was unknowable. Even his sons did not know him. Akuebue was not sure what reply he had expected, but it was most certainly not the laugh which he got now. It made him afraid and uneasy like one who encounters a madman laughing on a solitary path. He was given no time to examine this strange feeling of fear closely. But he was to have it again in future and it was only then he saw its meaning.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Ezeulu again. ‘So I betrayed Umuaro to the white man? Let me ask you one question. Who brought the white man here? Was it Ezeulu? We went to war against Okperi who are our blood brothers over a piece of land which did not belong to us and you blame the white man for stepping in. Have you not heard that when two brothers fight a stranger reaps the harvest? How many white men went in their party that destroyed Abame? Do you know? Five.’ He held his right hand up with the five fingers fanned out. ‘Five. Now have you ever heard that five people – even if their heads reached the sky – could overrun a whole clan? Impossible. With all their power and magic white men would not have overrun entire Olu and Igbo if we did not help them. Who showed them the way to Abame? They were not born there; how then did they find the way? We showed them and are still showing them. So let nobody come to me now and complain that the white man did this and did that. The man who brings ant-infested faggots into his hut should not grumble when lizards begin to pay him a visit.’
‘I cannot dispute any of the things you say. We did many things wrong in the past, but we should not therefore go on doing the same today. We now know what we did wrong, so we can put it right again. We know where this rain began to fall on us…’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Ezeulu. ‘But whether you do or not you must not forget one thing. We have shown the white man the way to our house and given him a stool to sit on. If we now want him to go away again we must either wait until he is tired of his visit or we must drive him away. Do you think you can drive him away by blaming Ezeulu? You may try, and the day I hear that you have succeeded I shall come and shake your hand. I have my own way and I shall follow it. I can see things where other men are blind. That is why I am Known and at the same time I am Unknowable. You are my friend and you know whether I am a thief or a murderer or an honest man. But you cannot know the Thing which beats the drum to which Ezeulu dances. I can see tomorrow; that is why I can tell Umuaro: come out from this because there is death there or do this because there is profit in it. If they listen to me, o-o; if they refuse to listen, o-o. I have passed the stage of dancing to receive presents. You knew my father who was priest before me. You knew my grandfather too, albeit with the eyes of a little child.’ Akuebue nodded in agreement.
‘Did not my grandfather put a stop to ichi in Umuaro? He stood up in all his awe and said: We shall no longer carve our faces as if they were ozo doors.’
‘He did it,’ said Akuebue.
‘What was
Umuaro’s reply to him? They cursed him; they said their men would look like women. They said: how is a man’s endurance to be tested? Today who asks such a question?’
Akuebue felt that he had already agreed with Ezeulu sufficiently to be able to dissent again. ‘What you say cannot be doubted,’ he said, ‘but if what we are told is true, your grandfather was not alone in that fight. There were said to be more people against ichi in Umuaro than…’
‘Was that how your father told you the story? I heard differently. Anyhow the important thing was that the Chief Priest led them and they followed. But if there is hearsay in that one, what about events in my father’s time? You were not an infant when my father set aside the custom which made any child born to a widow a slave unless…’
‘I am not the man to dispute any of the things you say, Ezeulu. I am your friend and I can talk to you as I like; but that does not mean I forget that one half of you is man and the other half spirit. And what you say about your father and grandfather is very true. But what happened in their time and what is happening today are not the same; they do not even have resemblance. Your father and grandfather did not do what they did to please a stranger…’
This stung Ezeulu sharply but again he kept a firm hold on his anger.
‘Do not make me laugh,’ he said. ‘If someone came to you and said that Ezeulu sent his son to a strange religion so as to please another man what would you tell him? I say don’t make me laugh. Shall I tell you why I sent my son? Then listen. A disease that has never been seen before cannot be cured with everyday herbs. When we want to make a charm we look for the animal whose blood can match its power; if a chicken cannot do it we look for a goat or a ram; if that is not sufficient we send for a bull. But sometimes even a bull does not suffice, then we must look for a human. Do you think it is the sound of the death-cry gurgling through blood that we want to hear? No, my friend, we do it because we have reached the very end of things and we know that neither a cock nor a goat nor even a bull will do. And our fathers have told us that it may even happen to an unfortunate generation that they are pushed beyond the end of things, and their back is broken and hung over a fire. When this happens they may sacrifice their own blood. This is what our sages meant when they said that a man who has nowhere else to put his hand for support puts it on his own knee. That was why our ancestors when they were pushed beyond the end of things by the warriors of Abam sacrificed not a stranger but one of themselves and made the great medicine which they called Ulu.’