The Dust Must Settle

By Obinna Ozoigbo

A particlar family unit in West Africa disintegrates after the turn of the nineteenth century. But this family, at the dawning of the twenty-first century, against all odds, is restored . . .

In a bid to escape his father's tyranny in Arochukwu, Uzo Ogbonna elopes to far-away Calabar with his heartthrob, Ivuaku. But, while living among the Efiks, he is murdered by his best Efik friend, never to set eyes on his motherless triplet children.

His life as an Anglophile pays off, finally; a young Welsh missionary in Calabar, Mary-Ann, takes ill and sails with the now orphaned triplets to England in 1923 as toddlers. Tracing their ancestral home in Africa, some years after, would have been a lot easier if Mary-Ann had not died, and if these triplets had not been separated within the ambit of the British Adoption Act.

The "machinery" set in motion for the coming together of these triplets seventy-nine years after is skillfully narrated by the author in the Book Two and Book Three of this captivating family saga that spans four generations . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452087948

Obinna Ozoigbo

Born in 1972 in Enugu, Nigeria, where he grew up, Obinna Ozoigbo hails from Ihiala, in Anambra State, Nigeria. Following his father's change of jobs from the University of Nigeria Teaching Hospital, Enugu to Alvan Ikoku College of Education, Owerri (also in Nigeria), Mr. Ozoigbo completed his secondary-school education in the latter town, where, at 13, he began tounleash the literary prowess in him. For his tertiary education, he attended ATB University, Lagos State University, and the University of Calabar, all in Nigeria. He has worked for over 18 yearsas banker and accountant. Mr. Ozoigbo lives in Lagos with his wife and three children, and looks forward to launching into full-time writing. The Dust Must Settle is his first published literary work.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Book One

The Father and the Children (1899 – 1954)

1: Uzo

Calabar, Nigeria (1899-1923)

2: The Triplets

London, England (1923)

3: Ruth

Brooklyn, New York (1945-1949)

4: Esther

Belfast, Northern Ireland (1945-1949)

5: Timothy

Nottingham, England (1945-1949)

6: The Nuptial Triangle

(1949-1954)

Book Two

The Grandchildren and

the Great-grandchildren (2001)

7: Obiageli

8: Funto

9: Aisha

Book Three

The Climax (2002)

10: Disappointments

11: The Heirlooms & The Glory

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First, all glory and honour and power to my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, in whom I live, in whom I move, in whom I have my being.

Then my profound appreciation goes to the following people: Eugene and Rebecca Awadje, Efe and Ifeoma Naibe, Festus and Patience Azarah, Gogo and Clara Anyanwu, Sunday and Esther Osasuyi, Ernest and Lucy Abadi, and Gertrude and Stella Okorie. All of you have, surprisingly, allowed yourselves to be used by God during those times that can best be described (by me and my family) as the valley days.

I also want to appreciate my friends, Nnamdi S. Oleaghara and Kenneth C. Nwosu, with whom I delved into the reading culture of the literary world during our formative years. Swimming in the same literary pond with you both was more than worthwhile.

I remain forever grateful to my medical buddies who did advise me at one point or another during the writing of this book: Uche and Chidi Ogbonnaya and Ifedi Okonkwo. May God lift you, far beyond your dreams, to the pinnacles of your medical careers. Uche and Chidi, thanks for your continued faith in my literary talent and in the publication of this book.

And to my legal buddies—Ganiyu Olakunle Bello and Clement Agbe—I send my sincere gratitude.

Chris Agada, keep up the good job and the charisma! And do not relent in holding the dream. Thanks for your amazing humility—and for the prayer you said for me the very first day we met.

My friends, Odo Ewa Ekeng and Amba Effiong Amba, thanks for the contributions you made towards the creation of my Efik characters, and for introducing me to the Efik language and custom.

Muhammad Shehu Modibbo, Joy Bright, G. F. Manwa-Ndeti, and Adedayo Olawale Oni, words alone cannot express my profound gratitude for the translation roles you played during the writing of this book. Muhammad thanks for saving me the trouble of making a research trip to Kano.

The management and staff of The Wikimedia Foundation Inc., USA, the owners of WikipediaTM, the free encyclopedia, you have been of immeasurable help to me during my research work. Many thanks.

Colour In Britain, a publication of the British Broadcasting Corporation (1965), based on their radio adult education series, has also helped me beyond measure to understand a lot of things about the position of the coloured Commonwealth immigrants, and their children, in Britain. This understanding has proven invaluable to me in the course of writing this book. Thank you, BBC!

Dr. Etop Etim, you are simply wonderful; no amount of words can express how thankful I am to you for granting me, willingly, the permission to reproduce in this book the lyrics of The Journey Down the Aisle, one of your numerous compositions (which you presented as a duet with Nike Titilola at The Chapel of the Healing Cross, Idi-Araba, Lagos during Ifedi’s wedding, 25th February, 2006). It is a masterpiece, Etop!

Moses Imhakhawo, may I express my immense appreciation for taking it upon yourself to get my computer repaired on your own account—and in good time. I must admit, it’d have otherwise made me run crazy.

I will not forget to thank Muhtar Bakare of Kachifo Ltd, Lagos, the owners of the imprint, Farafina, for giving me a listening ear, and for going through the first electronic copy of my manuscript, together with his editorial team, in 2005, when it was still kind of sketchy.

I also thank my additional friends: Cajetan Nwachukwu, Odion Ebhodaghe, Ugo U. Orji, Nkeiru Iheanacho, Lucky Ogbe, and Frank Omoaghe. Ugo, thanks for telling me so much about Arochukwu; Odion, thanks for your continued faith in my work; Frank, thanks for telling me about Brooklyn, one of the New York City boroughs.

Franklin Nechi, you are always on my mind; your tutelage, under which I have once been, opened my eyes to a lot of things about the world of insurance, and the global reading culture.

My special gratitude goes to my spiritual fathers: Ernest Abadi, Luke Egbonuba, Iyobor Osagie, and Jude Azodoh—and then to Frederick Egharevba and Peter Obukwesili. Thanks, my dear reverends, for your prayers and words of encouragement.

I appreciate, immensely, the fervent prayers of my mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Ememgini Ozoigbo. A million thanks, Mom, for all the sacrifices during my formative years!

Dr. Jachimike Adiele, thanks for your assistance. I appreciated it. I still do.

Chief Chinedu Asinu-Anosike, you are a gem! I am so grateful to God that we met—at the eleventh hour.

Billy Awadje, thanks for sharing your literary dreams with me before you finally relocated to London; I never knew we had so much in common. Engr. Theodora Nwenyi (nee Ozoigbo), thanks for being a wonderful cousin, for your kindness and thoughtfulness.

Many thanks to Babs Adefioye, Joke, and Mfon of the Sylverbird Group, Lagos—and to the following people in the UK and the US: Geraldine Bavastock, Bernadette Kabia, Ryann Jacoby, Eugene Hopkins, Nathalie, Kalilla Cassidy, and Scott Testy.

I will not forget the encouragements of Mrs. Rita Etoh, Mr. Israel Iroabuchi, Dr. Emma Olowuokere, Mr. Pedro Iragbonse, Mrs. Patricia Osagie, Mr. Victor Benjamin Iwu, Mr. Chinedu Akuchie, Mr. Onyekachi Unachukwu, Mr. Godwin Nwadinobi, Mr. Paschal Alamezie, Mr. Udeogaranya Maduka, Mr. Shola Babalola, Mr. Toyin Babajamu, Mr. Ogo Ozoigbo, and Mr. Jude Chimezie.

My very special gratitude to my wonderful wife, Chinwe. Many thanks, Honey, for that prayer that worked, instantly, when my computer began to ‘behave’ abnormally, and for making the first proofreading.

Obinna Anthony Etoh, many thanks for the second proofreading. My profound gratitude for your support and encouragement.

And my profound love to my children—Ebube, Zulu and Tochi—for those (sweet) background noises during the writing of this book.

Lagos, 2009.

BOOK ONE

The Father and the Children (1899 – 1954)

 -1-

UZO

Calabar, Nigeria

(1899-1923)

ONE

AKUNNA AND UGBOAKU had gone to the stream to fetch water. They were on their way back home, hurrying to prepare the evening meal for every member of their father’s large household, when a couple of bandits took them unawares and overpowered them, and then took them away.

They knew, intuitively, that their father, Mazi Oji, was the evil one behind it. For Mazi Oji had, repeatedly, taken part in the sale of some youths  in their kindred to the Portuguese and English slave merchants. The sale of such persons to these slave merchants had always been a secret business transaction which Mazi Oji, and some of his peers in the council of chiefs, regularly undertook. (These chiefs dined and wined in the Eze-Aro’s palace where they fawned on the king without ceasing. And, interestingly, they had all made friends with Fausto Arsenio.)

Fausto, a wealthy Portuguese slave merchant, had chosen to remain recalcitrant to the law which had been legislated by the British authorities to abolish slave trade. It was Fausto’s belief that a few more trips would do, even though the Royal Navy had been dispatched to patrol the seas. Yes, they had been empowered to act as an international police force to stop the transatlantic slave trade which had been on for several years.

The wailing and squirming of his second and third wives—the mothers of Akunna and Ugboaku, respectively—did not move Mazi Oji. These two women loathed their husband for selling their daughters, their beautiful daughters whom they would never see again, their daughters who otherwise were to console, and take good care of, them at old age. Mazi Oji had justified their sale to Fausto, a sale he had long negotiated with some stealth. They had disobeyed him by taking after strange ways, ways that insulted him in his exalted position. They had made him an object of ridicule in the nineteen villages of Arochukwu.

Akunna, at eighteen, had not just given birth to a bastard, to the chagrin of her no-nonsense father. What was worse, she had given birth to an osu child, an outcast, after she had turned a deaf ear to her father’s admonitions.

The entire family, after listening to the sad news, had risen in support of their father.

Mazi Oji had summoned his five wives and several children together to warn the latter that none of them, male or female, would be spared if found to be in a relationship with an osu. He had stated, with fire in his eyes, that he would not be alive to witness this abomination, or to watch Akunna, who had been defiled by an osu, go through the rigours of a childbirth that would only produce an osu child. The vehemence of his rage had shaken the entire household, and had therefore silenced Okoroji, the young man from Amannagwu, that Juju slave of no consequence, who had wanted to marry Akunna. Needless to say, by the sexual act itself—with Okoroji, Akunna had already become an osu. Consequently, there was no more place for her in the family. And there was certainly no place for her osu child. This was a father’s final decision on a matter that had wounded his pride so badly.

Ugboaku, the second daughter, was about the same age as Akunna. Her parents had begun to worry that she had always refused every Aro suitor. Instead, she had chosen the ways of the white man, and had been inflammed by an unnamed passion. She had been caught several times at night, when the moon was not out, with the son of Bernard Fletcher, the only English missionary in Atani. It had been rumoured that a nineteen-year-old Alan Fletcher had taken Ugboaku to bed on several occasions. Therefore, Mazi Oji had thought it wise, and expedient, without waiting to get to the bottom of it, to send for Fausto Arsenio.

He had told everyone in his household who cared to listen that he would not let Akunna and Ugboaku drag his name in the mud, and bring disgrace to him, the famed owner of the largest farmland in Arochukwu and beyond.

You want to continue from where the other stupid girls in this village stopped, eh? Mazi Oji had scolded Ugboaku. Your step-sister had been with one useless osu! And now yours is with that never-do-well son of that missionary they call Fletcher! That frail-looking white man! Eehkwa! You gullible girls are born everyday only to bring sorrow and misery and suffering to your fathers! . . . Let me tell you, Ugboaku! I will kill you before you obtain the impetus to kill me! I have warned you time and time again, and yet you don’t want to listen . . . Never mind, you will soon listen, because a very stubborn grasshopper that hops without control, turning a deaf ear to every warning, finally hops into the belly of a hungry bird to get eternal rest!

Mazi Oji loathed the white man. Ironically, however, just like his ancestors, he had always been a very keen player in the transatlantic slave trade, a trade which had taken many Igbo captives to the port of Bonny, or that of Calabar, yoked and fettered, to be shipped to Badagri, then to Freetown, and then all the way to  the Western world to work the plantations of the white man.

But how could he willingly join forces with the Juju cult to supply his kith and kin as slaves to a people he despised with so much disdain?

Well, out of sheer avarice, he had played this role smoothly, in collaboration with the council of chiefs—and Eze-Aro himself . . .

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

UZO, MAZI OJI’S GRANDSON, who had been working as a stevedore in the port of Calabar, stopped musing. He had been jolted by the cry of a fellow stevedore who had just had a painful sprain at his ankle. Immediately, he turned to look at Ita Asukwuo whose sinewy body also shone with perspiration in the scorching tropical sun. Relieved that Ita’s injury was not as serious as his cry had made him and the other stevedores in the port to believe, Uzo wondered if he would ever go back to his ancestral home in Arochukwu.

And then he continued with his musing . . .

He detested Ibinu Ukpabi, the most popular deity in Igbo land and even beyond. He had prayed umpteen times that, one day, the colonialists would destroy its shrine. He had witnessed the rise of the Arochukwu Kingdom as a result of the whopping revenues generated from the transatlantic slave trade. Bravo to the Aro-confederacy and the royal family of Eze-Aro, and the Ibinu Ukpabi high priest who gave him wrong, sycophantic counsel, and his horde of warriors, and a host of red-cap chiefs who surrounded and worshipped him in a most hypocritical manner. But Uzo had a premonition that, someday, somehow, the European missionaries, backed by the power of their omnipotent chi, and also by the military prowess of their formidable government, would destroy the shrine of Ibinu Ukpabi and this nefarious trade, even if the king’s horde of warriors would unleash an onslaught against them to stop them from carrying out the destruction. Uzo knew that, if the colonial masters would do this and, finally, conquer the Arochukwu Kingdom by wiping away the shrine of Ibinu Ukpabi—and the deity itself—from the surface of the earth, Arochukwu would, no doubt, be a haven for all Christians and new Christian converts alike. Then he and Ivuaku would go back home, perhaps with their children, all the way from Calabar to their dear Arochukwu, one of the last towns in the Southern protectorate of the British Empire.

Due to the great influence of Ibinu Ukpabi, the shrine stewards and the lower members of the Juju cult had migrated to different clans, south of the Niger, to settle. In their various settlements, they had served (and still did) as emissaries and informants to Ibinu Ukpabi. This development had brought about the birth of the Aro Confederacy . . . and, because this confederacy made incredible profits from the transatlantic slave trade, they would never stop baiting their people, those innocent people, into the horrible jaws of slavery—or so it seemed. As this confederacy grew in ardent political power, obviously, deviously conferred by Ibinu Ukpabi, trading posts and slave quarters, together with satellite shrines, were erected in different villages where litigations of varying sizes, could be handled. And those found guilty were, in most cases, sent to the shrine of Ibinu Ukpabi to be sacrificed to the appeasement of the great deity.

But Uzo had screamed in horror and horripilation, with a great deal of unbelief, having found out his father’s dark secrets.

His father, Mazi Ogbonna, was a staunch member of the Aro Confederacy, meaning he was in the group of cultists who, led by the chief priest, were in charge of the Long Juju shrine administration.

Mazi Ogbonna, and some of his fellow red-cap chiefs, had stooges through whom they had continually forced (and, probably, still did) some travellers and pilgrims into slavery. These stooges, in conspiracy with the shrine stewards, would pose as bandits and chase their victims into the shrine, hoping they (the victims who had escaped to take refuge in the shrine) would beg the deity for protection. By so doing, they became osu (juju slaves), so that the priests, with the consent of the chief priest, could sell them off for profit shareable within the group of conspirators.

(Among many of the ethnic groups in the Eastern part of Nigeria, especially the Igbo people, anyone who entered a shrine, and begged the deity of the shrine for help or protection, instantly became an osu, meaning a slave of the shrine and, also, a social outcast. As this wicked act which, surprisingly, emanated from some of the eminent Aro personalities continued, businessmen from Arochukwu had to migrate across Southern Nigeria, and also to Cameroon and Equatorial Guinea, where they founded numerous settlements.)

It had got to a point where people who were guilty of one offence or another, and sent to the shrine for sacrifice, were not actually sacrificed but were sold into slavery. To deceive the people who had come to witness the ceremony preceding the sacrifice, and the sacrifice itself, which usually took place at the stream, behind the façade of palm fronds, the shrine stewards would slaughter goats and/or other animals, so that when their blood began to flow in the stream, the onlookers would think the sacrifice had taken place, finally, and would then begin to depart, praying to their personal gods never to let them meet their fates in this manner . . .

Uzo shook his head in silent indignation as he thought about all these things. He had told himself, however, that he would no longer indulge in reminiscences, but had now realized how impossible it was, as dwelling in one’s past is a natural phenomenon, without which humanity is incomplete.

The event he would never forget was when he had summoned up enough courage to stand before his father and began to rant, glaring at him, amid onlookers and passers-by. Papa! He had shouted, indignantly, "I want to assure you that the spirit of my mother and that of Mamaukwu, who were thrown into the evil forest for giving birth to twins, will avenge me, because you have been cruel to me. Yes, ever since I was born! You will see!" . . .

Suddenly, it began to rain, and this brought Uzo out of his reverie as a gigantic steamer began to berth in Calabar. It had taken a month and a fortnight for Tarzan to sail from Liverpool to the West Coast of Africa.

Uzo shook his head and used his right index finger to wipe away the beads of perspiration from his hot, coal-black brow. He was grateful for the rain; at least, he thought, it would bring down the heat.

Feeling so sorry for his grandfather, Papaukwu, that incorrigible narcissist, he wondered where his aunties—Akunna and Ugboaku—could be now. Oh, Akunna, he cried. Perhaps she could be in some plantation in the white man’s land weeding it or harvesting crops, together with other slaves . . . And Ugboaku? Perhaps, Uzo swallowed hard, she did not survive the voyage of the slave ship, since his father had always jested about how frail and sickly she had always been. He was grateful to God, though, that people like Fausto Arsenio and Papaukwu no longer existed. He was most grateful to God that transatlantic slavery had, finally, been completely swept out of the surface of the earth.

Still standing ashore, he raised his gaze and saw many more white people trooping out of Tarzan. He’d been told by some of his fellow stevedores, especially the older ones who had been working in the port long before him, that a good number of these Europeans had come, selflessly, as missionary workers. Yet some, especially the women, had come to spend their holidays with their spouses who had been dispatched to Calabar to perform their respective colonial duties, to pay allegiance to Great Britain, a country desirous of acquiring more and more colonies with a view to expanding its already enormous empire. Uzo marveled at the way they carried their luggage and the diverse colours of their hairs—blond and black, and chestnut and auburn, et cetera. And most of the women, he observed with excitement, were brunettes! But, among the women, was a particular one that caught his attention; she had no umbrella, and did not bother to run away from the drizzles of the rain, neither did she bother to ask the native stevedores nearby for an umbrella. In spite of the rain, she walked gracefully, and gingerly, to the expansive port-lobby, seeming not to care a hoot as rainwater dropped on her short auburn hair. Uzo wanted to run to her, to help her with her luggage, to get her an umbrella. But he thought better of it; he did not work in the Passenger Section of the seaport. Instead, he worked in the Cargo Section. He was very impressed in that the white lady acted very much unlike a European. He had observed from his early years in Arochukwu that all Europeans needed umbrellas with which to walk whenever the rains arrived.

From a distance, Uzo Ogbonna, amazed by the enormous size of Tarzan, stared in awe at the white passengers who had come from Europe. These were the colonial masters, he thought, the special people who had been sent by some spirits to colonize him and his people. Some of them were coming to Calabar for the first time, whilst some (having already spent their vacations in the British Isles) were returning to their respective stations in the civil service of the British Empire, which was fast spreading its tentacles within the Eastern bloc of a place that would later come to be known as Nigeria. Still many more of these Europeans had come to Calabar for some sort of political and commercial and military engagements. (Calabar was the seat of government of the Niger Coast Protectorate, the Southern Protectorate and the Oil Rivers Protectorate of the British. It had been established as the Oil Rivers Protectorate in 1891. The colonial administration, however, was putting together the necessary machinery that would be set in motion with a view to merging Calabar with the chartered territories of the Royal Niger Company to form the colony of Southern Nigeria. It was, therefore, the expectation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain that, by the first day of January of 1900, the colony of Southern Nigeria would be born. Perhaps it was also their expectation that, by 1906, the colony around Lagos would be added, and the territory would be officially renamed the Colony and Protectorate of Southern Nigeria.)

Uzo remembered the stealthy Portuguese slave merchant in Arochukwu, that shameless, inebriated fool, about whom his father, Mazi Ogbonna, had proudly told him. His grandfather, Mazi Oji, whom they had always fondly called Papaukwu, had, cold-bloodedly, sold two of his daughters—Akunna and Ugboaku—into slavery. Mazi Ogbonna had told Uzo the events that had brought about this transaction.

Uzo could not help imagining the screaming and squirming and cursing of these two young girls as they were dragged along, mercilessly, by the merchant’s stooges.

TWO

A YOUNG MAN with feline grace, Uzo Ogbonna was born in January of 1878. He had come to the Calabar port to work, and was now on the wrong side of twenty.

Just like all the natives, he was not aware of the passage of time, neither did he know the instrument with which it was measured. The group of young Christian converts in the village to which he belonged was yet to be taught that. Father Leech, the Irish priest in Arochukwu, did not teach him that before he (Uzo) left Arochukwu, successfully eloping with her heartthrob, Ivuaku. Perhaps Father Gerald, the young priest, whom he now assisted, especially during and after Sunday Mass, would teach him. He was, therefore, ignorant of the fact that this century would soon come to an end, and then give way to the next one which was waiting on the endless time-line. Instead, all he knew was night and day, the rainfalls and the sunshine, the farmer’s seed-time and harvest-time. All he knew was that the crow of the rooster was a signal to man that morning, or dawn, had arrived, whilst the retirement of the rooster, which followed the setting of the sun, told man that dusk had arrived—or was on its way. But he also knew that Ivuaku, who had always remained in the innermost chamber of his heart, existed and lived for him alone. A damsel, Ivuaku was four years younger. And Uzo was certain that she would give birth to his children, one by one, who would live to bury the two of them after they had aged and died.

Uzo knew that his father had despised him, because, in his father’s opinion, he was overtly lazy. Mazi Ogbonna had loathed, and perhaps still did, this young man. According to him, he was not worthy of being called, or known as, his son. He could not understand why Uzo foolishly liked the ways of the white man. For Mazi Ogbonna, just like his own father, Mazi Oji, was a farmer of great renown in the whole of Arochukwu. He had, matter-of-factly, always drummed it into the ears of his offspring that the only essence of children conceived and born in polygamy was, simply, active involvement in their father’s farming occupation—an occupation which, among the Igbo, was the most respected and the most lucrative. Mazi Ogbonna had a lot of yams, a lot of palm trees, and, of course, a lot of yam seedlings that waited in his barn for the next planting season. He had enough tobacco and tons of such palm produces as palm-oil and palm-wine and palm-kernels. Mazi Ogbonna had inherited it all from his father, from whom he had learned the virtues of farming and the vices of avarice. As a result of the latter, there had not been a Portuguese slave merchant who had not had business dealings with all the past generations in the lineage of the Ogbonnas. Mazi Ogbonna had always said that the more male children a man had, the more hands he would have in his expansive farmland.

Uzo had, however, challenged his father’s polygamous authority by refusing to join his step-brothers in the farm (during one farming season) where they worked daily, from dawn to dusk. He was the only surviving child of Ojiugo’s. And he wanted, desperately, to go to school, to learn the ways of the white man, to speak the English language. But Mazi Ogbonna would not allow that, neither would he tolerate such nonsense, such insolence, from any one of his children.

Then he remembered his step-brother, Okeke-Ugo—that vampire who had loathed him, even more than their father. Born in 1868, exactly ten years before Uzo, Okeke-Ugo was the eldest son of Mazi Ogbonna. He had tried on several occasions to bite Uzo and spit his venom into him, so that he, Uzo, would die and join his mother who had gone, gone forever to the land of the dead.

We go to the farm everyday to toil under the scorching sun, Okeke-Ugo had once told Uzo, sternly, with a frightening glare, his mouth lopsided, "and you go to the white man’s home, then come back to join us to eat. Let me warn you that I am counting your days in this house, because it is now too small to accommodate both of us. You must leave before you infect us with the white man’s unseen leprosy. If you insist otherwise, I will kill you . . . Stupid weakling . . . How come those white people don’t give you food, since you have stubbornly chosen to always hang around with them? You will surely die like your mother!"

Uzo had tried everything possible to please his big brother, Okeke-Ugo, but had cautioned himself to stop, having realized that the more he tried to please him, the more his brother despised him and called him an unwanted child who must be gotten rid of outright before he brought calamity and shame and defeat to their family, a family that had a track record yet to be broken in virtually all things, a family that the ancestors of Atani village were proud of, a family that was the envy of all other families in the whole of Arochukwu, a family that had begun to produce unrelenting radicals, starting from their father, Mazi Ogbonna, who would never cease to challenge, fearlessly, the authority of the British government.

Ojiugo was the name of Uzo’s mother. The fourth of Mazi Ogbonna’s five wives, she had been sent into the evil forest to be eaten up by the wild beasts after her new-born twin-girls had been brutally killed right under her nose—and right before the very eyes of Mazi Ogbonna, their father.

Abomination! . . . Abomination! . . . , the people had chanted in indignation, and Mazi Ogbonna had not dared to speak or chant otherwise.

Ojiugo, there and then, had despised the people and, particularly, her husband who had refused to come to the rescue of the innocent twins. She had become evil to the entire Atani village. This had happened barely two years after Uzo’s birth. That was in 1880. (Indeed, up till the 1880s, it was highly abominable for a woman to give birth to twins in this part of the world where cannibalism and superstition and blood sacrifices offered to different deities were rife, where witchcraft as a lifestyle reigned supreme.)

Uzo was very grateful to God for sending to Calabar a white woman named Mary Slessor, and a white man named Hope Waddell, to bring some of these evil practices, especially the killing of twins, into total extinction. He had prayed that some day, he would see Mary Slessor face-to-face and thank her for having embarked upon what he could describe, personally, as the riskiest missionary journey ever.

Twin-bearing was an abomination to the Igbo (and the Efik). One must be killed, so that the other would live. But, should the mother refuse to let go, then both of the twins must be killed and thrown into the evil forest, sometimes together with their mother. This despicable and appalling practice was orchestrated by the strong belief that one of the twins was a spirit child, a pestiferous being, who had been sent from the spirit world to spy the land of the living and relay every piece of information to the spirit world. After a while, they would use all the information (which they had gathered) to inflict constant strife, penury, and epidemics of all sorts, upon the living. Unfortunately, one could not tell which, between the twins, was the spirit child. For this reason, it had been considered safer to have the two killed than to kill one and spare the life of the other who may turn out to be the ever dreaded spirit child.

With total resignation, Mazi Ogbonna had written off his son, a motherless Uzo, as a weakling. Through the dogged persistence of his other wives, and all manner of persuasive tactics that were characteristic of women, he had driven out Uzo to slave for the Europeans. He could not explain the unseen powers that had always restrained him from selling Uzo into outright slavery. After all, Mazi Ogbonna had chided, that was what the stupid weakling had always wanted for himself. Mazi Ogbonna detested the Europeans and their way of life. He had complained to his children, time and time again, that these white people had come to contaminate the Igbo with their horrible language and culture, with their mysterious religion that claims that there are three persons in their own god. He would say to the hearing of anyone who cared to listen that the white man had come to subjugate the Igbo land to his selfish end. But, as long as he lived in this Atani, his homeland, where the bodies of his ancestors had been buried, they would not succeed. Time and time again, he had reassured himself and his children and kinsmen that Ibinu Ukpabi (Long Juju) would not allow them. Even if they succeeded, he had continued in his usually proud manner, this famous deity, which was faithfully worshipped by him and his people, and the spirits of his own ancestors, would never let them go scot-free. Never!

Uzo and Ivuaku had met as Christian converts in a neighbouring village called Isinkpu (where Ivuaku hailed from), bless a group of Catholic missionaries stationed in Arochukwu. Father Leech, the Irish priest in Isinkpu, with whom Uzo had worked as a Mass servant, had taken them as his own children and had begun to teach them how to read and write in the English language. He had frequently advised them with regard to living as an intending Christian couple. He had watched them closely as their love for each other grew. But as soon as the news had reached Mazi Ogbonna that the lovebirds had begun a serious courtship, he was furious. He had objected, vehemently, to the foolish idea. Uzo had, immediately, got wind of it. He had known why his father was standing between him and Ivuaku.

Consequently, Father Leech, aware of Mazi Ogbonna’s idiosyncrasies, had deemed it necessary to visit him, accompanied by his one-and-only interpreter.

Why is it a foolish idea, Mazi? Father Leech had asked, politely, one cold evening as Mazi Ogbonna and his sons were in front of their thatch-roofed huts barbecuing with yam.

Because the little girl called Ivuaku is not only from a family where there is no male presence, but also from a family with whom my own family has been living in enmity for ages, Mazi Ogbonna had replied, not bothering to look at both Father Leech and his interpreter. And none of my sons, as long as I’m alive, will marry any girl from such a family, no matter how beautiful or well-behaved she might be.

"But Ivuaku’s isn’t an osu family?"

No, it’s not. Mazi Ogbonna had answered quite curtly.

What do you mean by no male presence, Mazi . . . And what brought the enmity between Ivuaku’s forefathers and yours? A flabbergasted Father Leech had queried.

Mazi Ogbonna had regarded him fully. White man, listen . . . this is Igbo land, and not your own that we know nothing about . . . which perhaps is in the waters.

His sons had laughed, knowing too well that their father’s sense of humour could be good at times. In rapt attention, they had been listening to the conversation. But they were more amused by the interpreter as he earnestly searched for the right English words with a great deal of effort whilst speaking to Leech.

As a matter of fact, Mazi Ogbonna’s main reason for trying to squelch the Uzo-Ivuaku relationship was borne out of ingrained prejudices. Ivuaku, everybody in Arochukwu knew, came from a pro-British family. Her father, who had shown that he was as indolent as the white man, had supported the Aro youth’s indoctrination with the white man’s beliefs, in spite of all the threatening admonitions from Eze-Aro who had always spearheaded the Aro slave-trading oligarchy and cult of human sacrifice, of which Mazi Ogbonna was a staunch member. But this clergyman, in the estimation of Mazi Ogbonna, was not the right person with whom to discuss such issues as the core politics of the Aros and/or the relentless efforts of the British government to subdue it.

There is no Igbo family that is happy to have only girls as offspring, Mazi Ogbonna had continued. There must be, at least, a male among the females. It was like that for ages, long before I was born. And it will forever be like that after I breathe my last. As for the enmity between my forefathers and Mazi Okereke’s, leave that to Ibinu Ukpabi. We can’t delve into it. It’s a very long and complicated story.

It’s alright. But a family without a male presence can adopt a male child, if they want. Can’t they?

From time immemorial, Mazi Ogbonna answered, an obvious frown creasing his furrowed brow, it is hard to see a family in Igbo land adopting a male child, let alone thinking of doing so. It is even an abomination, as far as I am concerned! So, no family with only female children can fool the elders, or the people, by doing so. But where would you see a child to adopt in the first place? A family in such a situation can only marry another wife, believing the new wife would give birth to a male child, even if the head of the family is already dead.

Head of the family? You mean, the man of the house?

Yes, the man whose wives have given birth to only girls.

If he is already dead, who then would marry the new wife?

Of course, his widows . . . In their quest for a son to carry on the family name to the next generation, they must marry a new wife into the deceased’s family, otherwise their family name is hurled into the abysmal depth of extinction as soon as the last girl standing is married away.

You mean, a woman marrying a woman?

Oh, yes!

My! . . . How then will the bride get pregnant?

There are many randy men within, and outside, the extended family, of course. Alternatively, one or all of the girls may be required to begin to sleep around with a view to producing a male child, or male children, for the family. That is our tradition.

That’s sheer prostitution!

No! That’s Igbo tradition! Mazi Ogbonna had hollered back at Father Leech.

All this stuff had sounded, and still did, preposterous to Father Leech. Heathen practices! he had sighed. But, for Christ’s sake, what is wrong with a family having only girls as children?

They bring bad luck! They bring a lineage into total extinction. Whilst our sons are the instruments of posterity, our daughters are instruments of sex and reproduction. What is so difficult to understand here? In fact, female children are of no worth. In my father’s day, when I was a little boy, one could give away one’s girls to the Portuguese for their sexual satisfaction. That is, if the Portuguese were your friends or business associates and they came to spend a night or two with you and needed to be entertained in that wise.

Father Leech had shaken his head disgustedly. Holy Mary!

Yes! . . . And if a girl misbehaved, she would be sold into slavery.

And her parents would consent to that!

Silence.

My own father, Mazi Oji, willfully sold his two daughters—my own sisters—into slavery.

Good Lord!

If a woman gave birth to a baby girl, the father could order that the baby be thrown into the evil forest if he so wished, depending on his mood at the time the baby was born. There, the baby would be eaten up by the beasts of the forest.

That is blatant wickedness! Father Leech had cried, not knowing that the boys were greatly amused by his grimaces.

But I do it . . . Well, I used to . . . You see, I have ordered the killing of my twin-children, principally because they were baby girls. If they had been boys I’d have conspired with my friends to have them stealthily separated in the dead of night, and no one else would ever get to know.

You can’t be serious! Leech had glared. He, among other missionaries, had joined in Mary Slessor’s campaign against the killing of twins in the lands of the Igbo and the Efik. He knew all the beliefs that hinged on this heinous practice and needed not be told that this Mazi knew that he already knew about it.

Silence.

Let’s not talk about twins now . . . You see, in Igbo land, he who has only girls has nothing. In other words, my father’s daughters were of no use to him. As a result, he sold them away.

And what have all these explanations got to do with Rosemary?

Rosemary.

And who is named so, if I may ask? Mazi Ogbonna had asked, in spite of the fact that he knew that once one was converted by the white man, one changed one’s heathen name, automatically, and became baptized. Just any of the white man’s names that tickled one’s fancy would do. "Who is Rosemary, please?"

The young lady we’re talking about, to whom Stephen has proposed, of course.

Stephen.

Mazi Ogbonna had burst into laughter. It was a mocking sort of laughter. His sons had also joined in the laughter, to the embarrassment of the Irish priest.

Stephen!

Oh, the spirits of my fathers! Mazi Ogbonna had slapped his hairy chest indignantly, looking up to the sky, Uzo! . . . Uzo, my own son, has changed his name! He has allowed himself to be enslaved by this terrible people. They have cast a spell on him! . . . Well, I might as well disown him. Then he rested his gaze on the priest, narrowing his eyes. "First, Ivuaku, or whatever you call her, is from an all-girl family, and I won’t allow that foolish son of mine to bring that phenomenon into my own family. My brothers and I have had many more boys than girls. My father and forefathers, too . . . You can see all my sons around me. So I wouldn’t allow some effeminate boy, that weakling who calls himself my son, to stop the trend. Secondly, that boy, Uzo, will not dare the spirits of his ancestors. Their wrath will descend on him if he chooses to remain adamant. How can he be perambulating an enemy camp, for goodness’ sake? I count myself out!"

Preposterous! Father Leech had pursed his near-red lips, repressing his amusement. But it is only God that determines the sexes of one’s children. Moreover, you don’t have to continue living in the ignorance of your forefathers. Someone must make peace between the two families someday, because this enmity may adversely affect the up-coming generations if it continues unabated. Who knows? Stephen and Rosemary might be the ones God wants to use to make peace.

Mazi Ogbonna disregarded the priest’s last statement. I have spoken, white man. And that is final . . . You may leave.

"Now that Rosemary is not an osu, she is from an enemy camp—an all-girl family! When are you people going to stop all this nonsense, for Christ’s sake?"

Mazi Ogbonna glared at the priest. He could no longer suppress the anger burning in him. That is the way of life here! You white people should leave us alone! Let us live the way we have learned it from our fathers, just like you are living yours the way you learned from your own fathers, too! Have I made myself clear, white man?

On that rhetorical note, Father Leech and his interpreter had to leave.

They had gone to Isinkpu to dialogue with Mazi Okereke, Ivuaku’s father. He (Mazi Okereke) had also made it abundantly clear to the priest that the son of Mazi Ogbonna would not dare to take the hands of his daughter, in view of the enmity that had (and still did) existed between the two families.

The Irish priest had gone home, determined to begin the process of paving the way for peace between the two families, but was rather devastated when he came to the knowledge that Uzo had eloped with Ivuaku.

The lovebirds knew very well that their fathers had meant, and still did, every single word of what they had said.

Since they could not wait for their parents’ blessings, and those of the elders of their villages, the priest had soliloquized, most disappointedly, they should then have known better enough that they ought to have waited for mine.

THREE

PUSH! . . . PUUUUSH!

Mama, I can’t go on any more! An exhausted Ivuaku said, hardly audibly . . . and then screamed. She was in excruciating pain. And the baby seemed to be taking a long time to come.

Push, Rosemary! . . . And don’t say that again! . . . Open your mouth wide and gulp in enough air and then push again! You can make it, my girl . . . Puuuush!

The local mid-wife, an elderly Igbo woman, whose name was Enyidiya, had migrated from Arochukwu more than a decade ago. She had come to stay in Calabar with her three female children. Since Uzo and Ivuaku were also from Arochukwu, she had taken them as her own children. They had narrated their ordeal to her, and how it had taken them days and nights on end to find their way by canoe to the hinterlands of Calabar through a number of rivers and creeks, and how they had almost settled at Itu. It was the prospects in Calabar, occasioned by the possibility of getting a job at the port, that had propelled Uzo and Ivuaku to settle finally among the Calabar natives, instead of the natives of Itu.

Enyidiya was born an orphan and had been unbearably maltreated, not only by her husband’s family members, but also by both her paternal and maternal people. For the only person who had loved her, her dear husband, had died. Okoroafo had refused to yield to the mounting pressures that came from his extended family to re-marry, since Enyidiya could not give him a male child. They had concluded that she had charmed their son and had, therefore, blinded him from seeing that he needed a male child for the sake of posterity. No sooner had Okoroafo died than they banished Enyidiya and her three daughters after they had accused her of killing their illustrious son—her husband—who had made them proud as a popular wrestler. She had demanded, whimpering, that she be dragged to the shrine of Ibinu-Ukpabi, the most celebrated deity in Arochukwu, to swear that she had no hands in Okoroafo’s death. Her name was Enyidiya, after all, which literally means ‘her husband’s friend’. But the elders, under the influence of the bribe they had accepted from the members of the deceased’s family, had, to the dismay of the villagers, ruled against her strong will to seek justice. She had told her maternal and paternal people that it was a false accusation. But they, too, had denied her, because they believed the veracity of the accusation. A nonplussed Enyidiya had, therefore, almost resigned herself to fate . . . But come to think of it, she had thought much later, should she have insisted that she be dragged to the Juju shrine, against the background of this wrong accusation, she would have ended up being sacrificed to Ibinu Ukpabi, or being sold, clandestinely, into slavery. Of course, neither the chief priest nor the deity itself would have vindicated her. On the other hand, running to the shrine for protection, ahead of her adversaries (who had, in a morass of obstinate resentment, conspired to get her killed) would have made her an osu. And her children, too, including her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and many more generations to come, would, in turn, become osu. She had thought: will it be better for me and my children to run to the shrine of Ibinu Ukpabi for protection, or for us to run away in the dead of night to some far-away place, where no one knows us? She had wavered between these two decisions for so long. She and her children would not have been banished so unjustly, so shamefully. And it had pained her that not even a soul among the other villagers could step out to defend her. They knew she was innocent, but could do nothing, absolutely nothing, about it, since the elders had stepped in to judge the case. (Who were you to stand before the elders in Arochukwu after a great deal of economic and socio-political power had been conferred upon them as members of the juju cult, as the executives of the Aro Confederacy? No matter how much effrontery you had to confront them, you would be highly intimidated by the stench of despotic power that exuded from within them.) Enyidiya . . . Poor widow. She and her children had lived like the gypsies until they got to Calabar. At this point, she had told herself that they would not go any farther to pitch their tent.

And, having finally settled in Calabar, she had thrown herself, together with her daughters, into the warm embraces of the European missionaries. She had felt, and still did, that this was the only place they were safe, and would always be. The missionaries had christened her Franca, whilst her daughters—Olaedo, Ugbomma and Chika—who were now sixteen, fifteen and thirteen years of age in that order, had been christened Felicia, Scholastica and Henrietta, respectively. Over the years, Enyidiya had proven, determinably, to be a very competent hand for every woman in labour, and that was where she and her daughters eked out a living. And just like Uzo and Ivuaku, Enyidiya and her girls had the Efik Language at the tips of their fingers.

But as she knelt down on the floor, in the hut that harboured Uzo and Ivuaku, wishing that the young girl could push harder, Enyidiya doubted that competence; the job was becoming laborious, for she was really having a difficult time. The two Efik women—Edua and Ekaite—who were assisting her by holding Ivuaku’s legs wide apart, had not experienced such a difficult birth, either. Ivuaku was sweating, profusely. She was panting, and would squirm and scream and gnash her teeth every now and again. She wished Uzo was there to hold her fists—which she had clenched as a result of the excruciating pain; to tell her some sweet, romantic things that would have a soothing effect. But, she relented, hissing bitterly, Uzo was at work now, toiling for the white man. He would stay there all day long, carrying cargoes at the dockyard, his bare black back, and his muscles and sinews, shining with perspiration in the scorching sun. He had gone with his best friend, Andem Asukwuo, also a convert, who had come from Creek Town. Andem had come to the port to work as a stevedore, too. And both of them, Uzo had told her, had been endeared to each other, having so much in common.

But, she reasoned, even if Uzo had been around, anyway, he would not have been allowed to enter the hut until he heard the cry of his baby. The Efik frowned at a man sitting, or standing, beside his wife in labour as she screamed and squirmed. So did the Igbo.

It was midday, and the rain had come to an abrupt stop, giving way to the sun which, having risen halfway from the Eastern horizon, now stood in the centre of the sky. The year was 1905. The hardworking neighbours had gone to farm, whilst the lazy ones had gone to work for the white man. The children had also gone to the farm, to give a helping hand to their parents. But it was not all of them, for those whose parents had been converted by the European missionaries, had gone to learn the language and the religion and the etiquette of the white man, whilst their parents, just like Uzo, had gone to work for the same Europeans as stevedores, as interpreters, as dishwashers, as gardeners, as butlers . . . for some shekels. These were the ones who had been dismissed, and tagged, as lazy by their fellow natives, those dogmatic traditionalists, like Mazi Ogbonna, who had rebuffed the friendly and hospitable overtures which the white man had always made to them with a great deal of subtlety.

Enyidiya, Edua and Ekaite, sweating profusely, too, had reached their wits’ end. Had Rosemary and her husband done anything to incur the wrath of the gods upon themselves? If so, it was too late, even, to make the necessary blood sacrifices to get the gods appeased. Even if they had done so, and it was not too late to appease the gods, Enyidiya had argued, Rosemary and Stephen might not agree to be subjected to anything that would make them compromise their new faith. In spite of the fact that she shared in that faith, Enyidiya would always subscribe to compromises. The lovebirds did not realize, however, that this new faith entailed their obtaining the sacrament of matrimony, and that a devastated Father Leech had made several unsuccessful attempts to find them, so that they would receive that sacrament which is of paramount importance, universally, to any two lovers who desire to live as man and wife.

Then suddenly, Ivuaku took a very deep breath and mustered the remainder of the energy left in her sweating frail body and gave a long, hard push. The baby came out. The trio at work was elated. It was a baby girl! As she waited to hear the cry of her baby, Ivuaku took a deep sigh of relief and then relaxed. The pain had gone. It was all over . . . But the baby’s cry was not forthcoming. Ivuaku raised her head from her lying position, saw the gloom written all over the faces of the three women and let out a shrill cry. No! . . . Not after she had waited for a very, very long time to get pregnant!

Enyidiya was astounded. She had failed her son, Stephen. She had wanted to make him proud, to make him a distinguished father. A strong wave of sympathy swept through her in such a way that she almost staggered as she made to be on her feet. She prayed that the earth would open and swallow her up as she and her able assistants, who were equally aghast, looked at a disheveled Ivuaku as she writhed in agony, in a pool of blood—which suggested to Enyidiya that a complication had arisen. Ivuaku had begun to bleed, uncontrollably.

Edua and Ekaite, as helpless as they now were, began to stare at Enyidiya, their eyes searching the Igbo woman’s face for a hint as to what to do as a matter of extreme urgency to forestall the ugly development.

It was a stillbirth, and if Enyidiya did not do something right away to salvage the situation, Ivuaku would bleed to death. She quickly sent for Father Gerald. Then she sent for Uzo. And while waiting for them, she had to prepare the necessary herbal concoction to give to Ivuaku in order to arrest the profuse bleeding.

FOUR

UZO HAD NEVER before thought of taking his own life, for his father had always told him that it was only cowards that contemplated suicide. And he had believed that. But right now, he no longer did, because it had just dawned on him that suicide could never be equated with cowardice, as he had summoned up some sort of courage to go through with it. He had lost his twin-sisters. He had lost his mother. He’d lost Akunna and Ugboaku, his big aunties, to the capricious whims of Fausto Arsenio.

And now, he had lost Ivuaku, his darling Rosemary! And his baby! Their baby!

What then was he living for? Practically nothing. The converted natives, among whom was Franca (Enyidiya), had come to pay their condolences. So had a couple of missionaries, including Father Gerald. They had sung some Efik Christian songs that rent Enyidiya’s heart, so much so that she broke into uncontrollable tears and began to roll on the sandy floor in front of Uzo’s hut. I caused Rosemary’s death! she had wept. If I had been a little more careful, she wouldn’t have bled to death . . . Stephen forgive me . . . forgive me, please! The men amongst them had calmed her down by telling her it was okay, and that she should wipe away her tears. Father Gerald had preached and had exhorted Uzo and everyone else. But to Uzo, the exhortation was like water poured on a stone; it did not permeate.

As he groped deeper and deeper into the thick bush behind his hut, clutching the tough rope he had brought from the cargo section of the port, he thought about his native land, Arochukwu, the people he had left behind, especially Father Leech who had taught him the alphabets, and some of the grammar, of the English language. He thought about his own father (Mazi Ogbonna) and his hardness of heart. He thought about the natives of this jungle in whom he and Ivuaku had come to take refuge, to build a family. . . Arochukwu . . . Calabar. What a big surprise when he and Ivuaku had found out that there was no difference between the peoples of the two settlements separated by a long distance, save language; they had the same beliefs, the same cultures, the same religious practices, the same foods. Heathens! Yes, they were all heathens! But he had always admitted to Ivuaku that he loved, passionately, the afang and abak soups which were cooked among the Efiks, with a lot of mfi.

It had always gladdened Uzo’s heart that missionaries like Hope Waddell and Mary Slessor had come to destroy those heathen beliefs, those practices that spelt stark horror. For example, Uzo had been told by a very old Efik elder that Waddell had come to Calabar to found the Calabar Mission which now stood upon the very hill where the dead bodies of the natives used to be thrown to the wild beasts. It was the same elder, Uzo mused, who had told him about Mary Slessor and how she had succeeded in bringing cannibalism and the killing of twins to an end. How could a man eat his fellow man, Uzo had wondered, and drink his blood like water? How could a man be hard-hearted enough to order the killing of twins? Innocent babies. How could a man watch in total silence as his wife, the mother of his twin-children, was being dragged to the evil forest to be left at the mercies of cannibals and the wild beasts? Why should a man, sometimes at the slightest provocation, send away all his daughters into the evil forest, or, worse still, into the inhumane hands of slave-traders so as to satisfy his avaricious appetite, simply because they were just girls? Ridiculous. Why should some people be murdered when the ruling Eze-Aro died, and his wives strangled, so that they and the murdered people would go with him to the spirit land? Why should one wake up in the early hours and find a python curled in a corner of his hut and begin to worship it by pouring libations on it? Why should some Igbos be regarded as osu when our Maker had made us all to be the same, in His own image and likeness . . . when Jesus had come in the form of man and had died to break down the wall of partition between the Jews and the Gentiles, so that there would not be a Jew or a Gentile, subsequently? Uzo did not have the answers to all these questions that never ceased to race through his mind. All that mattered to him now was that he was glad that Waddell, Slessor, Leech and several other missionaries from England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland had waged a war against this spiritual wickedness, and had won, bless the supreme God who had sent them from His united kingdom. Uzo, as a result of being a victim of his people’s superstition, knew that these practices were not just wrong but blatant evil. Father Leech and his people had convinced him and Ivuaku, and several other Arochukwu natives, in the light of the Gospel, that these practices constituted an abomination in the sight of the supreme God.

Uzo had, therefore, always known that the hard-hearted people in Arochukwu, and the stiff-necked ones in Calabar, who had turned their backs on the missionaries, constituted the incarnation of the devil. Yes, they were demons in human form, otherwise his twin-sisters and his mother would not have been killed so brutally, so cold-bloodedly, for being born, and for bearing, twins. His sweet Rosemary would not have died, either. Since, therefore, there was nothing else, and no one else, for him to live for, or look up to, he had decisively made up his mind that taking his own life would worth his while. He would