[It was all I had left for my children--the story of how we made it through every hardship--indeed it was a bleak time I do not wish anyone to taste. It is a testament of suffering.] November 1961 I was all alone in school, in the Hamattan season reciting the little Ibo poem our teacher taught us today. I would sing it aloud: "Nwanunu nwanu nta; turuzazaturunza Ino ebe ahu emegini Ano mu aturu nnemu ose tukele ka isi atu . . . " Then I forgot the ending of the music calling the birds. If I didn’t learn it very well, our teacher would flog us. Our teacher was one I would never forget; she was brisk in her doings. Then I would call her a giant, but I later discovered that those thought tall at that tender age were only average in height when I got older. This teacher of mine had two long hairs on her jaw; whenever she was angry it would seem as though the two hairs joined together to fuel her anger the more. When I told my mother of this wicked nature of my teacher, she would laugh and tell me that is all the same with women who have bears in their jaws. She said it to make me endure the pain, but I knew that it pained her too to hear of this mistreatment given to her tender aged daughter. As I sat in our school with the ending of the poem gone from my mind, I saw Mum coming to take me home. She had a basket in her hand, her beautiful face lighted with a smile as she approached me. All I could do at this time was to fumble into tears. Then my mother would drop her basket and run to me; she held me tight and asked me the reason of my tears. I would soberly say, "I forgot the ending of the poem our teacher taught us . . . she will flog me if I don’t recite it tomorrow." She would ask me to sing the beginning for her. Gently I would hum the poem to her. Then she teased me, telling me she would teach me the poem at home. I would leap as she held me by the hand, walking towards home. We lived at Enugu city, precisely Uwani. I am the last of the family. My father was a civil servant of the lowest grade, and was paid a paltry sum that would do for us throughout the month. He was very proud of his five children because they were all intelligent and exhibited it in their various fields of endeavors. Our first son was in college then studying as hard as he could. My father also hunted at spare times. He would take his gun with his friends; they traveled to Ngwo to hunt. He came back with bush meat each time. He would call us and say: "My children eat meat; you have really suffered; a poor man must surely find his feast when God wants." He was kind at heart and always wanted good things for the children-- things within his reach. I would call to him: "Papa! Papa!" whenever he was coming back. I would run and hug his legs, then he would raise me into the air. I would scratch his moustache in my palms and say: "Papa the teacher said we should pay our fees when coming to school next week." He would cry: "Oh my daughter! Being poor isn’t good at all. What is three pennies that I cannot afford. Don’t cry. I must pay it after my hunting today and I must tell you stories tonight." Telling stories was the most interesting gift he could ever give to me. That night the moon was full, glittering on our happy faces. Almost all inhabitants of the public yard surrounded my father, waiting eagerly to hear his folk stories or his life experiences. This night he chose to tell us this life experience. He told us of how the British recruited them, gave them guns, and clothed them like soldiers--sending them to Burma to go and fight for them. My father served as a private during World War Two. He said that before the war they saw the white men as ghosts who were indestructible; then, in the battle field, we witnessed them die like chickens. Then they knew they were mere mortals who could equally be made to leave their country. He would show us the cut in his left ear and the bruise on his head and say: “That is what the bomb did to me. I was in the thick forest of Burma digging trenches when the enemies opened fire at us. They pounded us with several mortars that left people dead, both white and black, beside me. I heard 'Boom!' I tried to take cover immediately. Ah! I was a hero, but the bomb got me a little and the sound distorted my hearing for life.” He didn’t only tell stories; he would demonstrate in a manner of adding animation to the story. He always fulfilled his obligation. And then I would gradually sleep on my father’s lap like a baby kangaroo in the mother’s pocket. There was this cousin of mine that stays with us sometimes. He sang for a group of musicians, but he never made it as a musician. His name was John. I called him--Dede John. To emphasize that he was my elder I called him Dede. Dede John liked music. He slept with us in our room. Every night he would turn on his JVC radio and play old melodies that can never die. He so much loved the Everly Brothers, and could not do without their track: “Take A Message To Mary.” I saw him master the music every night till he learned every word in the track. The words he emphasized most were: " . . . Please don’t mention the stagecoach And the shot from my careless gun . . . you Can say she better not wait for me But don’t tell her I am in jail . . ." He also liked "Ebony Eyes" and he could sing it from the first word to the last. But the verse that trilled me most went like this: "Listen to the ocean Echoes of a million seashores Forever is in motion Listen to the rhythmic and unwritten music . . ." Every night I saw him play these songs. In the morning he would dress like a gentleman and leave for hard work. He was a fellow who never made it as big as his future and endeavors seemed. I revolved around my local father and mother and then my siblings and my gentle cousin who dined with countryside music. At school I had two friends called Ngozi and Amaka. They were as little as me. When going to school, I would go and call them one by one. Along the way I would tell Amaka “I saw Mama Ngozi cooking akpu nhum, nhum, nhum.” I would close my nose as I mentioned that her mother cooked fermented cassava-- a food for Ibos which we ourselves ate, but we always criticized ourselves whenever we saw each other’s mothers preparing it. Amaka would say "Leave Ngozi. They even eat okpa . . . they are from Wawa." Okpa is also a sweet food, but due to it being prepared by the Wawa people in Enugu, we would tease each other with it. But all of us savor it. At the end of school year, Papa would send us to the village for the Christmas. I would stay beside the window in the car so that I could catch a glimpse of the running grasses as I called them then. Whenever you passed grass with speed it would seem as though the grass was running along with your car. At the village, the car would drop us at the junction for us to find our way. Then an old man on a bicycle would pass and shout in Ibo, “Hei! Umunnem, unu olalole--my brothers are you back?” He would carry some of our load for us and head straight to our compound where he would first break the news of our arrival to our family. They would all climb on top of their bicycles to come and meet us. They would see us happily trotting down the dusty road and embrace us. They would carry our remaining load for us and put us on their bicycles. Then we would ride on the two-wheeled car back home. At home, Papa would give them what he came with. Even as little as a morsel and they would happily savor it. In the evening Papa would put on singlet and a pair of shorts. He would take me by my hand so we would go and visit the village dwellers. I wondered why their houses should be red mud. I wondered why they should be going to the bush to pick firewood instead of buying it like my father did. I wondered why they said we are beautiful and well fed, owing to the fact that they even eat more food than us. I wondered why our dresses should be more beautiful than their own, and then we would call them village dwellers. I wondered why there was so much love for our neighborhood in the village, unlike in the township. I wondered why Papa would share the meat with all his kinsmen and leave only a segment of the goat for us to eat. The most interesting part of the visit was running in the forest picking firewood. It would seem as though all the folktales you ever had been told were all true. The first day I saw a tortoise in one of our visits to the forest. I said to it, "Tricky animal! Tricky animal!" as though the animal was truly tricky in the real sense. He would exhibit all the characteristics we had learned in stories; he was slow above all. Then I would remind the poor creature of how he had outrun the dog to submit death to the gods with his tricky nature; so now we have to die. Then, on Christmas day we would put on our best clothing--the ones that Papa bought for us. We would look like princes and princesses; every eye would be on us. The village dwellers shouted: “They are not from the town! They look beautiful. There they dress. Oh! I wish I could have that dress.” Knowing fully well that we were well dressed, we would lift our shoulders high and fix a smile on our face as we walked towards St. Patrick's Catholic Church. Then, after the mass, we would help in killing the Christmas chicken. We would watch the chicken struggle for its last breath. It would serve us well in the Christmas stew. Then we would put on our Christmas cloth and go to watch the villagers dance. They would dance like the maiden of spirits, twisting their arms and their waists to the rhythm of the music. Then we would watch The Masquerade perform. It was the most fearful of all; and when it drew close to out post, we would run for it not to wipe us with its stick. It would stop and dance to the rhythm of the music, stamping its feet on the ground, throwing its head up and down in a manner to entertain. Then we would visit our distant cousins where we would eat food. By the time we came back home a large moon had already set up in the sky. Mama would shout at us for coming back so late. Papa would in turn hush her to leave the little children alone . . . that nothing bad would happen to us. And nothing did. Then the same night our uncle James came and took us to pick udara, which is a fruit. Since I was the youngest, he would carry me on his shoulder; I held a torch to show the way. Along the way, he would tell us frightful stories about this fruit and its tree. He said, “In the olden days, these trees were the home of spirits. Their famous dance of surugede is being footed under this tree. Even up to this day, if you come here by twelve midnight they will ask you to turn stone into food." We feared spirits although we never saw them. But we had stories of dead men that still walk on earth. Till we got to the legendary tree, every place would be dark except for our torch that shone into all corners. If we heard any movement near us, we would run to my uncle and hold him very strong. He seemed not to be afraid of the spirits that he told us about. And we had faith in him as a grown up. That was the zenith of our enjoyment at the village, picking these fruits. Then we would go back to the cold city. One day after school, I didn’t see my mother. I waited for her to come, but she didn’t, so I decided to go home by myself. I took a shorter way that my friends told me about--a place I have been longing to see. The scene was a memorable one; I saw men that work in a coal mine. These coal miners were as black as blackboard; I wondered if it was their work that made them so. They were busy removing carbide from their lamps. Some were singing in a meticulous way that drew my attention. They were not a choir but their song sounded like a slender bell in my ears. They sang an epic song about a child whose earthen pot fell off her head. "Nne nne udu arapulamo udum Nne nne udu arapulamo udum . . . " The song didn’t slip off my tongue until I got home. I saw people trooping in and out of our house. My father was outside crying. Some men held him saying: "Be a man; be a man." I was asking myself why they would ask a man of my father’s age to be a man. As I approached the house, our second born and first sister ran to me, held me tight and said: "Mama is dead." Though I was small, I knew what death was all about; Mama was now a ghost in summary. I would see her no more and she would not come to school to take me home again. I would have to walk back to our house . . . nobody to buy me chim-chim. The song of the coal miners came to my mind like a lizard on a log of wood. I sang it in a manner so that all the people there couldn’t hold themselves any longer. If a painter had been there, he would have painted something greater than the Mona Lisa. So that when anybody looks at it he would start crying. That night my elder sister took all of us with a rosary in our hand and we said a "Hail Mary" . . . waiting for a miracle to occur. That night I dreamt that my mother woke up. We embraced and said a rosary together. In the morning I went to my father and said, "Has Mummy woken up?" He answered, no, and I knew he looked at me like a kid. But I knew why I asked that question; I wanted to know if my dream had happened. But it never happened; she was laid to rest in our home town. I never saw her again. Truly, of the little I knew about her; she was really a virtuous woman. December 1966 A few changes had occurred in my body; I was now grown up. I no longer took my bath in the open like before. I had a few things to hide and preserve. I wasn’t much interested in politics, but the turbulence in the country forced me to sit beside the resistor with every member of the family. We listened to the trends of events in the nation. General Aguiyi Ironsi had been brutally butchered in a coup. Ibos were being maimed. We had our hero, Ojukwu, who stood up before the government to tell them the present situation of the Ibos was unacceptable. We had him declare Biafra! We heard of how he used English to turn Gowon heads and he signed the agreement at Aburi, allowing the Ibos to be an entity of their own. When my father’s friend Udo told the stories of Ojukwu it would seem as though he was there in a humorous manner of wit. We all agreed with the Aburi Agreement; I even bought a shirt boldly written: On Aburi we Stand. We believed in Biafra more than any other thing. We listened to Ojukwu broadcast the day he declared Biafra. We rejoiced. My father bought a keg of palm wine to celebrate Ojukwu’s bravery and tenacious attitude. He stood like a hero in our hearts. Uncle Udo said "Ibos can beat Hausas; let them come over here. Gowon will be shamed. Our youth are strong and brave. We are very ready to fight." Even my father said he would carry his gun and go to the battle front if worst come to worst. We waited for the worst as though we could curtail the Nigerian aggressiveness. One day I was in the bathroom taking my bath when I heard frightening sounds raining in Enugu. I could hear Boom! Boom! Boom! Ratatatatatata, sounding endlessly across the whole Enugu. Then I heard a large bang across our yard. Quickly I ran out of the bathroom with only a towel on my waist and over my body. I saw that the building beside our own had been struck down, then I saw the plane hover around still dropping its stools. Men, woman and children were running around seeking a place to hide. Children were crying for their mother; mothers were crying for their dead sons and husbands. The scene was indescribable. I saw Papa running in panic; he held us all and counted us with his head. Only my uncle wasn’t around, but soon he dashed in with soot all over his body. We never had time to ask him what happened. We picked a few things we could lay our hands on; almost all our properties were left behind. Everybody was running away from the sound of the guns and bombs, and so were we. We had no car to go in, just on foot. We trekked for about five kilometers. Along the way we saw Biafra soldiers dressed in that beautiful uniform with the symbol of the rising sun on its arm. Papa said "We will win within a few days. They will conquer them and then we will return to Enugu." But it never happened that way. We didn’t feel the distance when we trekked because other people were just like us. A car passed us and drove back; the man in the car shouted my father’s name, Orji. My father turned and saw our village man in the car. That was how we got to our village with nothing like before, when we had prepared for the visit. Unlike my father’s expectation of the war ending soon; it didn’t. It lingered on. The eastern zones were plunged into turmoil with the war spreading like a disease into all of the cities of Biafra. Then we started farming in the village for survival. Papa put palm fronds on top of our zinc, which almost everyone in the village did so that the enemy’s aircraft wouldn’t sight us. Fortunately, in my village there was never a direct attack throughout the war. The only attack was the one of our stomachs. The peaceful people became fierce in character and manner of living. In these conditions one boy went and stole so that he and his family would have something to eat. He stole two yams from a neighboring town; they caught him and buried him alive. Have you seen where a healthy man is bundled like a goat, and the young men dig the soil, and they throw him inside? If you hear his cries, his pleadings, his shouting, then your life will never be the same from that day onwards. Mine changed as I saw them execute this young man at the market square. Then our father called all of us and said, "Please my children don’t steal. Whatever we see we will eat. God will keep us alive." We ate whatever we saw like lizards, the light brown back of cassava. But yet it wasn’t enough for all of us. The tempo heightened when the soldiers came and took my only brother; he was forcefully recruited into the army. Everyday with empty stomachs we prayed fervently for his safe return. Papa never abandoned us; together like ants we worked for food. Later my village Awo-Omamma was used for distribution of relief materials by the CARITAS organization. We were there to collect relief materials. I know a handful of children that were killed by Kwashiorkor. Many lost their lives. I will always tell my children that war is not worth experiencing. After three years of gun shots, cries, and weeping our hero Ojukwu went into exile and the next in command surrendered to the Nigerian government. We thought everything would go back to normal, but we were wrong. The Nigerian government made policies that would reduce us to nothing. Even in the bank any amount of Biafra pounds you had were just exchanged for twenty Nigerian pounds. My brother came back safely from the battle; he is our veteran and hero up to this day. When we got back to Enugu all our property had been carted away. Even our rooms had been occupied by a man who said he knew nothing about the loss of our property. So, we started the world afresh. I was then forced to take up a job in order to help the family. Later, my elders started to do better in their various endeavors of life. Things eventually came back to normal. The death of my Mum and the Biafra War had been a bleak of taste in my life. ©2016 Chika V. Onyenezi [All Rights Reserved] |
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