The Legend of Arochukwu

By Nonso Ike

'The Legend of Arochukwu' is a strange but rare work of African fiction that tells a unique tale of a great warrior called Ebube, who stood tall while many great men fell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publiseer Publishing
• Release date: Mar 23, 2018

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TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

The topography of the Arochukwu community made the village look like a citadel, with hills rising above the surrounding forest like giant sentries. It was a cool day and trees swayed in the evening breeze, and from far and near the sounds of animals mingled with the songs of birds.

Groups of elders, among whom were indichie (titled men), ambled past huts from whose little chimneys tendrils of smoke spiralled into the clear sky. Every now and then, the men adjusted their wrappers firmly around their waists and, in a bid for more comfort, shifted the goatskin mats or the small stools tucked under their arms.

Most of them wore a cap from which a feather rose announcing that the owner of the cap was a chief. Some of them were bent over by great age, and though they had walking sticks, they walked with such stooping caution that you would have thought they were seeking permission to bring a foot after the other down on the ground.

They had come to Ibom Isi from Oke Nnachi and Eze Agwu (the other villages that made up Arochukwu) and were joined along the way by the chiefs and elders of Ibom Isi. Youths returning from the farm, with firewood and baskets of cassava balanced on their heads, rained reverential greetings on them as they went past.

The men arrived at an expansive, fenced compound in which was a large hut surrounded by four smaller huts. This was not the compound of the Eze Aro, as one would have thought, but of the Eze Mmo (the chief priest).

After announcing their arrival by clapping their hands, the men entered the central hut, which was filled with the stench of palm kernel oil, and made their way to a chamber that was both a shrine and a place where the council of elders met with the Eze Mmo. On an altar were a figurine, a dagger, a mask, several ivory articles, a calabash for rituals, and other fetish items. In front of the altar was a majestic stool before which the men placed the sitting mats and stools they had brought.

From their mood and the celebratory garments they wore, it was clear they were there for a joyous event rather than a council meeting. Chatting in low tones, they sat and waited for their host.

A legend was about to be birthed. It was 1871. The elders were gathered at the palace of Azuka, the chief priest of Arochukwu, to mark an unusual event. The chief priest had been promised a boy-child by the gods, an extraordinary child who would accomplish great exploits for Arochukwu, a hero as never seen before and never after to be seen.

In one of the huts around the shrine, a woman, attended by four women and a midwife, writhed on the floor screaming. The windows of the room were shut, and the room would have been in utter darkness but for the light from a palm oil lamp. The woman’s anguished cries could be heard far away.

The midwife urged the woman to push harder. The baby was already sliding out she said, and all that was needed was just one more push.

Obioma, push! cried the midwife. Do not give up now! Obioma screamed in anguish, and then the sound of her agony faded, overshadowed by the cry of a newborn babe.

It’s a boy! exclaimed the midwife. You have a son! Please give him to me, Obioma choked out.

The midwife handed the baby to her, and the other women laughed with joy and praised the gods. Outside the hut the chief priest waited, pacing back and forth in anxiety. It was said that The woman bears the pain of childbirth, but the anxiety of the husband equals the pain the wife undergoes. And so it was with Azuka the chief priest.

The midwife hurried out of the hut to Azuka, who could not hide his impatience for good news. At the mention of the word son, his face lit up with a great smile, not only because the words of the gods had come true, but also because African tribes held the male child in very high esteem and valued him as a man valued his own manhood. After all, the child was indeed a product of the strength of a man’s manhood.

Praise be to the gods; but tell me, how is she? demanded Azuka.

The smile faded from the midwife’s face. Not so good. She has become weak and has not stopped bleeding. Come. She took Azuka by the hand and pulled him into the hut.

Obioma sat up, her back against the bundle of rags that served as her pillow. The attending women watched grimly as she clung to the baby as though clinging to her very life.

Azuka lowered himself by her side and Obioma, to hide the pain that racked her body, announced with forced cheerfulness, It’s a boy! The gods have given Arochukwu a warrior as promised! She flicked aside the edge of the wrapper to give her husband a better view of the child’s face.

Azuka beamed at the newborn, and then he rose. The elders are waiting, he said. He would have wanted to spend more time with his wife but there were rituals that had to be performed immediately.

Obioma handed the baby to him, and Azuka took the crying child out of the room to the chamber where the elders waited.

They rose to their feet and followed him as he strode silently to the altar. Wisps of smoke had begun to rise from the altar.

Azuka turned to the men. It’s a boy as the gods promised and his name shall be Ebube. Turning round, he lifted his arms upward and stretched the child to the altar in dedication. Here is the child you gods have given Arochukwu. He is a direct descendant from you. May he bring much more glory to Arochukwu than we have ever witnessed.

Iseeee! the elders chorused.

Outside the shrine the sky darkened and a thunderclap followed. This was most unusual, for the season was supposed to be sunny and dry. But those familiar with the legend of the land knew what the thunderclap meant.

In the chamber, his face lifted to the roof, Azuka thanked the gods, and then he lowered the baby to his chest. Cradling him in both arms like a nursing mother, he said, He shall be circumcised on the second market week as our tradition demands.

Suddenly, the crying and wailing of women rose from Obioma’s hut, and a short moment later the midwife burst into the shrine. She ran to Azuka and whispered frantically. Azuka’s eyes widened. He shoved the baby at her and rushed out. Whispering among themselves, the elders wondered what the matter could be.

Azuka charged into Obioma’s hut and found Obioma lying motionless on the mat, her eyes closed. The four attending women stood about helplessly, lamenting and wailing. Azuka stared and stared.

Then he knelt by his dead wife and lifted her hands to his cheek. The gods have taken you away from me in exchange for the child, he mumbled. But I know that one day we shall meet again to part no more.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and it was with difficulty he restrained himself from joining the wailing women. Arochukwu men do not cry, he warned himself. Only women visit the river of tears to draw water for their eyes when sorrow strikes.

His eyes reddened. His beloved Obioma was gone; he had to be a man and face it. But could he, he wondered, live without her?

***

The whole village was agog with celebration; it was going to be a day like never before. Music filled the air as dancers and masquerades (who were regarded as masked spirits) danced back and forth, to the people’s delight. Children and women dispersed when the masked spirits came too close for comfort, only to resurface when the coast was clear.

Palm wine flowed like streams of water and there was an abundance of food to eat. Delicacies of all kinds were served, and it seemed that the poor and hungry could feed nonstop for a whole market week and not exhaust the food. Of course there were lots to take home, and the poor seized the opportunity, knowing it was a rare one.

However, others continued to mourn, unable to come to terms with the death of the priestess. It was a heartrending time for them, but those who understood the legend knew it was scarcely possible for any demigod-bearing mother to give birth and stay alive.

***

In the forest a boy dashed between trees with the speed of a gazelle as he went in hot pursuit of an animal. Taking deep breaths and clutching his spear tightly, he jumped down a low cliff and continued running. He turned swiftly to the right, then slid through a space between two trees, and landed in front of the leopard he was chasing.

The leopard halted abruptly and roared so loudly that the birds in the trees took flight. The young hunter dropped his spear. His manner was calm and gentle but his eyes were dark and wild. The leopard roared again, and when this did not scare the boy, the animal leapt to attack. The boy, with no weapon in his hand, sprang forward to meet the beast.

By the time the hunter’s companion appeared through the thick forest, the youngster had stopped fighting and was panting over his kill. When the companion saw his friend covered in blood and a leopard lying dead on the ground in front of him, the approaching boy did not appear surprised at all.

Congratulations for adding another feather to your cap, Ebube, he said.

I’m not a chief yet, Nnaemeka, Ebube replied.

Do you need to be made one before you know you’re one? Nnaemeka asked.

Nnaemeka, I don’t have time for flattery.

It’s the truth! How many warriors or hunters can kill one leopard a day with their bare hands? Nnaemeka wiped the sweat from his forehead. But for you, this is your second kill today!

Tomorrow then, I’ll kill three. In a swift move Ebube swept up the large dead beast and placed it around his shoulders. Grabbing his