Total Recall I

By Anagba Jibunor

Total Recall 1 is not a one-story, coherent book though. This is to say that it does not zero in on one story from beginning to the end. Rather, it is a collection of different stories put together into a small book.

From . . . the story of a kingdom, a small town, that divides against itself when the British brings their system of government in which political parties are formed to contest against each other. Members of the different political parties begin to fight. Members of one party would attack members of another party, both physically and diabolically. Then the military intervenes by staging a coup. The nation plunges into war. The same actors in the political party wars begin to use the military to try to destroy their erstwhile political enemies by inventing false accusations against one another.

To . . . the story of a woman who marries into a land thats far away from her own. In the new environment she is just like an orphan. No mother, no father, no near next of kin. Circumstances of life play it well to take advantage of her helplessness by accusing her of murder by witchcraft

To . . . stories of African mysticism. The stories are as diverse as they are many.

Total Recall 1 is a new kid in the block. The stories are so unique there is a good chance you have not read any story like some of them before.

It is written to introduce the world to Africa, the real, everyday Africa. Not the Africa of fiction or the Africa of twisted tales that early European explorers fed their kinsfolk at home. Strangely enough, these tales have stuck and refused to die.

It is my hope that through the knowledge gained from this book, the world will begin to understand why Africans do their things the way the world has become accustomed to. The stories in this book will introduce the world to the factors that shape the everyday thinking process of the average African. This, I hope, will introduce a little respect in the arena of international politics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503544086

Anagba Jibunor

Anagba Jibunor lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA. He has lived in the United States since 1988. In 1995 he graduated from the University of Minnesota with a bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering.

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Copyright © 2015 by Anagba Jibunor.

Library of Congress Control Number:        2015902374

ISBN:        Hardcover        978-1-5035-4407-9

        Softcover        978-1-5035-4406-2

        eBook        978-1-5035-4408-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 02/25/2017

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CONTENTS

I. A Kingdom Divided

II. George Dibiẹ

III. Matriarch Osonye

IV. Ọka Li Ulu

V. Almost a Slave

VI. Be Enu Si

VII. Udene A Boy Disappointed

VIII. Ikpe Ani

IX. Victor Nwa Agbe

X. Umeghai Nwa Uwaa

XI. Isọmọ De Yeke, Iyeke De Sọmọ

XII. Of Dead and Dying Cases, Juju and Africanism

XIII. The Ancient Art

XIV. Leadership Crises

XV. The Woman From Igboaki 63535.png i

XVI. Elena Accused

XVII. Ane-ene (Ne-ene) the Freelance Dibiẹ

PREFACE

I have a mother whose brain never forgets. I have boasted to people that, about the only thing my mother does not remember in this life, is what happened the day she was born. But we, her children, always complain that she bores us to death with her details. When my mum wants to tell the story of an event that happened somewhere, she will begin and soon digress to talk about what happened on the way to the main event. She will be on that side story for a while, talking about it in its most minute details. Then she will have the presence of mind to come back to the spot where she digressed, to resume the main story. Of course it is only a matter of time before my mum will be telling you about yet another event she encountered along the line. She will be on that digression for hours again, giving the details of who said what, to whom, where and why, etc. She knows and will remember who said what, where, and what time of day it happened. This makes her stories long and, yes, to us, boring. Oh that’s enough, come back to the original story you began telling us at first. That’s the one I want to hear, or something similar. That’s how we whine.

Then one day, I was in a church. A woman was giving a testimony. She was so happy to have been able to write with her hand after a stroke. In that testimony she made a statement that stuck with me. It got me thinking. She said, You do not know the value of what you have until you lose it. Ouch. It bit me like a spider. It struck me like a bullet and I learnt a lesson right there. I began to remember that many people would leave what they were supposed to be doing in a day and come to our house. They just want to spend time with my mum just so they can hear her stories. Stories of events that happened before they were born and some that happened not too long ago, which they have either not heard anywhere else or they heard but have forgotten. My mum will never forget any, even to the minutest details. But we, her children, do not value it because she is our homegrown prophet.

Then I made up my mind.

Thank God that my mum is still alive, I said. I am going to start penning down some of the interesting stories she had told and retold many times before. I will start recording them for posterity. That’s how this book was born. But I wrote these stories down not telling her. She didn’t, and still does not, even know that I was writing them down.

To think that sometime in 2007 my mum had a stroke that miraculously, totally, and completely, reversed itself after a few days, I consider myself extremely lucky to have had my epiphany while there is still time. If that stroke had damaged her, this book would not have been.

I consider my mum the real author of this book while I am just a scribe; her amanuensis. So the stories are penned down with my mum as the first person, except the few that came from other sources as acknowledged.

In genre, this book is a collection of short stories. It is not a one-story-coherent book. That is to say that, it is not a book that begins with one story and follows it to the end of the book. One story begins and ends, and then another begins. The stories may or may not be related. I wish I had my mum’s memory and sense of details. Each of these stories would have made its own separate book.

I acknowledge here that there is more than one side to every story. If any of the stories in this book concerns you, and if it is different from what you heard from your source, then take the version in this book as my mum’s side of that story. There is nothing wrong with you hearing a different version of one story. I like to hear your side. Tell it. Your side of the story is just as good. If you cannot put it in a book-sized volume, give it to me for the next edition of this book. It can only make this a better, more balanced book. But for this book, did you even know that there was a different version of that story you have always known? That’s the idea. Let all sides be heard.

That said, I want to let you, the reader, know that these are real stories of real events that happened somewhere, sometime. The names are real. They are names of real people that are either alive or had lived sometime.

You may notice my generous use of my Igbo/African expressions in this book. It comes from my dream to someday be able to write a book in my language while still making it readable to the world. But that’s a long shot. If I did, not many people will be able to read it. In expressing some thoughts raw, in my language, in this book, I convince myself that I have actually written the book in my Igbo tongue while conveying it to the world in fluidized bed of English.

A KINGDOM DIVIDED

ANY KINGDOM THAT IS DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF CANNOT STAND (Jesus)

The year was 1973. January. My mother-in-law, Amụamụziam or (Amụ for short), got sick. She was an old woman of many years who had had a fulfilling long life. She had had a fulfilled, long marriage, had had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. She lived that long. Putting it in her old-world expression: she had had Iyẹẹ (grandchildren), Iyẹhẹ (great-grandchildren), and kpatamagozi (great-great-grandchildren). By this time in 1973, she had lived to become the oldest person in town. Now she was sick and it was obvious to everybody that this was it. She may not survive this. The problem for me at this time was that my husband, her last-born, was not home. He was living and working at Asaba as a newspaper vendor for the Daily Sketch newspaper. Asaba, back then, was far away. It could take a whole day’s journey to go from my town, Obomkpa, to Asaba, and sometimes more. I did not know who would go on that journey for me to tell Innocent that his mother is near death so, at least, he can come and see her before she breathes her last. I found some driver who plies the road between Obomkpa and Issele-uku, and I sent him the message to tell anybody he might find in Issele-uku that may be heading for Asaba, to deliver this message to anybody he might find who hails from Obomkpa, to deliver this message to my husband that his mother is sick and that his presence is needed. The driver agreed to do just that. He drove off and the story ended there. I never heard back from him again; neither did I see my husband. So I knew not to rely on that Odenẹ zi ozi nzi (Odenẹ sent somebody to tell someone) source. I began looking rather for someone else to go for me. While I was looking and hoping, the poor old woman died. By custom, she was to be buried three days from the day of death. The need for me to find a person to go to Asaba became more urgent. My husband’s only brother, Okeleke, seemed not to be interested in sending a message to his junior to come and see his mother’s body before it is interred. So I ran to Ụya-adiazi, my husband’s cousin, for help. Could you please go for me? When he came out to go, Ikechukwu, Okeleke’s firstborn son, made a nasty, sarcastic comment. He said, "So, without Ju-unor (Jibunor), can’t Nnẹẹ (Grandma) be buried? Why is his presence so important? But this is the same man who purportedly went to Asaba to tell Innocent of his mum’s illness a few days earlier, while the woman was still alive. He came back from that trip but told nobody what he saw or did. So, whether he actually went or not nobody can tell. Now he is openly trying to dissuade the man that is willing to take the trip for me. Okeleke came out after his son made that statement and said to Ụya-adiazi, If you go, I did not send you, if you do not go, I did not send you. The poor man, Ụya-adiazi, got confused. He gave up and went back home. This was the day before the burial. I began to sense a conspiracy to exclude my husband from seeing his mother’s body before interment. But why would Okeleke be doing this to his own one and only blood brother. I am aware because I was there a few days before Amụamụziam died. She called Okeleke as if she knew she was going to die. She asked him to make sure Jibunor, his junior brother, leads the procession while he, the elder, follows from behind as you march to Ugboba with my corpse for burial. I was there when Okeleke assured his mother that he would do just that. But now the conspiracy to exclude his brother, my husband, seems strong. I became frantic in my search for someone to go for me. I went up and down the town seeking for help, but nobody was ready to give it. None accepted to go for me. I became desperate. And then I went to Chikeze, my husband’s cousin and bosom friend, to go to Asaba for me. I asked him how it would feel if an old woman, such as my mother-in-law, dies and is buried without his last-born son participating. This woman lived to be the oldest person in town before she died. And if, at last, your friend comes and asks you why you did not send for him when others failed, what will be your response? Chikeze paused for a while and then just sprang up from his seat. He pulled out his Mobilette, a motorcycle, and said, Go home, your husband will be here soon." This happened the morning of the day of Nnẹẹ (Grandma) Amuamuziam’s burial.

I went back home without telling anybody of the arrangement that had just been concluded. That afternoon, the people of Ugboba came for the body of their daughter. They came with their own funeral procession, drum, and dance. They arrived in the afternoon while the sun was still strong to begin the preparation of the body. In the evening, when the sun’s rays are not stinging anymore would be the burial. At that time they will carry their daughter’s body home for interment. It was this very same procession that my mother-in-law begged his first son, in my presence, to make sure that Jibunor, the last born, leads, and he agreed. It was the only thing to do, for so it is done. And now, in my very presence, Okeleke seemed to be scheming to exclude his only brother. The arrangement I had just made with Chikeze offered me the hope that their conspiracy will soon fail. And it did.

Just as the drums began to sound for people to come out so the final homeward journey and procession can begin, Chikeze’s Mobilette sounded. And there pavilioned was my husband. All who had been wondering why he had not come shouted for joy. I came running to hug him, but I was taken aback by what I saw. This man was woozy, drowsy, and sickly looking. And he was unsteady in his walk. He had been sick for some time, but we did not know it. Chikeze actually located him as he was searching to know his whereabout in a hospital ward, lying down there, sick. He was admitted about one week before, but nobody knew it back home. Amazingly, as soon as Innocent came down from the motorcycle, Okeleke came running toward him, singing, Ife Nnem Gwam Ka Mmeooo, i.e., What My Mother Said Is Exactly What I Did. Isn’t man a hypocrite by nature?

There was no time to waste. My husband came down and walked unsteadily into the room where his mother’s body was. By this time, it had already been placed in the casket, ready for the final journey. But because my husband, Innocent, was a biologic son, they had to open the casket for him to see her for the last time. He wept over her and, soon afterward, came and changed into the traditional Ogbeiapani.

***

It stunned me to find that the person we were busy expecting to show up for his mother’s burial had been lying on a hospital bed, sick. What if he had died all these days and we did not know it? Such questions were lurking all around my mind. Oh, the dream I had a few days ago is now beginning to make sense. As at the day I had that dream I could not make anything out of it.

In that dream somebody came to tell me that the noise out there is about my husband. What about him? I asked the person. They said he just died was the reply. No, my husband is not dead. He lives in Asaba. Well, they said he just died. At this point I said to myself, Let me go and see him, to prove to this people that he is not dead. I began walking toward Ezi. Some distance down the road, just about the time I got to the path leading to Mawa’s farm, I saw my mother (now late) with two of the bosom friends and peers she had when she was alive. She asked me where I was going, and I told her. I am on my way to look for my husband because the news just came that he died, but I do not believe it. Well, let me go with her, my mother excused herself to her friends. She abandoned them and began walking with me. A distance down we saw these three men, elders of the town, who began to mock me for embarking on a journey to look for a dead man. He is dead, they told me. Don’t bother to go there, unless you want to waste your energy. Then my mum charged angrily at them. She jumped on one of them, calling him a traitor and a disappointment. You are an elder and a senior citizen who should be keeping the community intact. But now you are participating in the destruction of the town in which you are a chief. After that encounter, I continued walking down the road, except that now, as is the manner of dreams, I was walking alone. My mum was no longer walking with me. When I got to the boundary between Obomkpa and Ezi, that place, in that dream, was a grassy meadow, yet it was called Asaba. I looked, but from horizon to horizon, the whole place was empty. There was nobody in sight. And then I called my husband like I always did when calling him from a distance. Innooo, I hollered. He answered me from a distance that seemed terribly far away. His voice sounded very faint because of the distance. Where are you? I hollered, asking. I am here. Come and see me here, he replied. I came because I heard you are dead, I said, from that distance. Well, that’s a lie. I am not dead. Otherwise I will not be talking to you now." That was his reply. With this in his mouth, he appeared within sight, and I woke up.

So this dream was about his sickness. Well, thank God he is alive.

But his appearance was not encouraging. He looked weak and woozy, and sometimes he acted uncoordinatedly. When did this man, who was lively and vibrant, become a sick man? From the time we married up until what happened to him during the civil war, this was a healthy, strong, and vibrant man whose face scared his age mates. But since that incident that occurred during the war, he has not been his real self.

2

The Nigerian civil war—when it started, the Igbo migrant workers that lived in our town in large numbers abandoned their farms and ran home to their Biafra homeland. When harvest time came, there was nobody to harvest what they had planted before their flight, so it became a free-for-all affair. Some people began harvesting these yams before it became public knowledge that anybody could go to any abandoned farm to harvest what s/he could.

Ejenem was heading to the Igbo farms, early one afternoon, when he met Okeleke, my husband’s elder brother, and my husband coming back from the farm. He asked Inno (short for Innocent, my husband’s baptismal name) to accompany him to the farm of some of the Igbo people who were under his care. They were known as Igbo Ejenem when they lived in our town.

There was an arrangement that had some migrant workers being called Ndi Igbo Ejenem, Ndi Igbo Akwudiwe, etc., depending on who arranged for their coming in the first place. So, on the way, Ejenem intimated my husband, Innocent, that Ji Igbo (Igbo yams) was a free-for-all affair. It had been determined by the town council that anyone could harvest whatever s/he could from any abandoned farm. But Ejenem gave him this information when they had gone far away from the town. So my husband, not having any container with him to carry any meaningful load of yams, dug some yams but left them in the farm until he could go home to get Abọ, a basket, to carry them.

In the evening, he went to Ejenem to ask if he, Ejenem, or Okolie his son, could accompany him to the farm that late so he could bring back the yams he dug earlier but left there. When he got to Ejenem’s house, the elder was not home. So my husband did not see him. He only met his son, Okolie. He asked for his company to that place to bring back the yams he left. I can’t go because we have brought all ours home. We have tied them up in the barn. Where is your father? He went to Ụkpatụ, replied Okolie. All right, I will be gone now. That was the conversation between my husband and Ejenem’s son, Okolie. Then Innocent asked Iwebunọ-ọ nwa Ijelii, his cousin, to accompany him. It was getting dark and he needed company. Besides, he had dug enough yams to make for two trips before he could clear all anyway. The presence of Iwebunọ-ọ would mean that the trip to carry the yams would be just once.

Iwebunọ-ọ had a Yoruba wife from Ibadan. The wife’s cousin, Muri, lived with him and his wife. He also had another houseboy called Jewel in his household. These two boys came along. As Innocent was heading for the farm with Iwebunọ-ọ, Muri, and Jewel, he met Ejenem on his way back from Ụkpatụ. "Diọkpa, I have been in your place today to see if we all can go together, said Innocent. Mba, no, we can’t go because ours have been cleared and tied up in the barn, Ejenem replied. Okay, but as you can see, that is where I am heading now with this my cousin Iwebunọ-ọ and his boys. Have a safe journey," Ejenem bade them farewell.

The four of them were able to divide the load into light portions. They began biking home from the farm. It had gotten dark before they got to the outskirts of the town. The two young boys, Muri and Jewel, cycled faster so they were quite a ways ahead of Innocent and his cousin, who were just riding gently, taking their time. When the boys got to the front of Akwudiwe’s compound, which is at the outskirts, an ambush sprung. They were jumped. Like a dream, a bunch of men came out from hiding and attacked them. Innocent and Iwebunọ-ọ rode up to that place and were struck down from their bicycles. They joined the fight. During the fight, it was discovered that the attackers were led by Ejenem and Okolie, his son.

After my husband and his company left, Ejenem organized young men to waylay them. He had a fear that Jibunor was becoming greedy and would dig up all the yams before others could get any. That man is greedy. He does not know restraint. I took him there this morning, and now he has gone with his cousin and others. They are going to be there, all night, digging, and by the time you know it, all the yams will be gone. I should not have taken him there. It was my mistake. All the men who waylaid them were from Ogbe Obi village except Ogbolu nwa Ochuka. He alone was from another village, Ogbe Onei. They saw him in a drunken stupor returning from an outing and corralled him in. He was drunk so was easily persuaded. And it was he who busted Muri’s lips with his torchlight.

Anyway, the attack continued far into the night. Muri suffered busted lips, and so did Jewel. These two men were young. Besides, in that fight, they were far outnumbered. Akwudiwe’s wife, Apiti, is Innocent’s first cousin. The noise of a fight brought her and other women in Akwudiwe’s household out. When she saw who was being attacked, she screamed and ran to tell Ganulu, my husband’s sister, who lived just a few houses down from there. They began running and screaming to tell people in the main town. Ogbe Ezi, where this fight was going on, is a little removed from city center, so it took some time for them to scream their way to report what was going on. When people heard inside the town that a nasty fight was going on out there, they began running toward Ogbe Ezi to separate the fighters. Other women were there all this while screaming. They feared the worst. The fight in the dark was looking as if someone might lose his life. They began to scream louder and louder. At last, the people who came to stop the fight outnumbered and prevailed over the fighters, and the fight stopped.

The news got to the king that night, that there had been a nasty fight that almost resulted in loss of lives. When the king heard that, the Ozi sounded, and the king’s council convened. This particular Ozi, the drum that calls the town council, sounded out of time. It was dark when the whole town heard the sound. And they came. This was out of the ordinary. When elder Nke-ekwu, the oldest man in town, heard the sound of Ozi calling a solemn assembly at the king’s palace, he came, even if it happened at an odd hour.

In the haste of the out-of-place-and-time assembly, it was quickly determined that the fight was as a result of theft. Some people went to steal yams from the farmland and were intercepted was the official statement of the attackers. Bring me some of the yams, Nke-ekwu requested. He held one tuber of the yams in his hand and asked some of the young men with better vision to inspect and see whose seal is on the yam. "Ashima onye li isi ji ọnwọ? he asked. It was determined that the yam has nobody’s seal on it. Onwene Ashima, (it has nobody’s seal on it) they told him. Then keep the yams as evidence till tomorrow because it is late now. We will reconvene, first thing tomorrow morning to investigate further. And then we will determine what actually happened." With that, the meeting ended for the night.

The next morning, Ozi sounded again, and Izu Ani (town council) began after the men of town had gathered. My husband and his company told their side of the story first. They told the story of how they were suddenly attacked by a bunch of men, almost out of the blue. We would like you to ask them why they attacked us because, to this minute, we do not know why these men would attack us. And strangest of all, why were Ejenem and Okolie, his son, there with those fighting us. This is what I will like to know. Ejenem and I are kinsmen. Why a kinsman would plot against and attack his kinsman, I still do not know, Innocent ended.

The king asked Ejenem why he, an elder statesman and a chief, would be involved in a gang fight. "These people are thieves. They went to harvest Ji Igbo illegally. That yam belongs to Igbo people. And where are those Igbo men now? the king asked him. They are gone. They ran home because of the war. Did we not rule in this town that the abandoned farms, since the owners are not here, can be harvested by anybody? And have you not harvested from it yourself?" continued the querying. The atmosphere was charged and noisy at the palace that day. At last the king’s council ruled that Ejenem and his thugs had done wrong to these young men. And just about the time they were busy determining how much fine was to be levied against the wrongdoers, as is the custom, there, in front of the king’s palace, appeared a soldier.

Iwebunọ-ọ’s wife had a soldier brother stationed at Umunede. When she saw what had happened to her cousin, Muri, with his lip busted by some men who attacked them in the dark, she went to call her soldier brother, who sent one of the men under his command to go with his sister. When this soldier appeared at the king’s palace, he had no restraint. He jumped on the men involved in that attack with whips and koboko. He began lashing them almost without stop.

It was immediately noised around the town that Ndi Army, that is soldiers, were in town to deal with some town’s men. Afam nwa Osia took some of the attackers to a private conference by the side of the king’s palace. "You boys were wrong in what you did. Look what you have done now by causing a soldier to visit our town. And it is wartime. What if they were more than this in number and had brought their bombs. Do you know your actions would have caused us a lot of harm? Now find something for us to appease this soldier with. We can’t send him away empty-handed. These men were contrite there because I was standing outside the king’s palace. As a woman, I did not go in to sit inside. I just stood outside listening to the proceedings as it went on. All those who came out to say or do anything saw me, and I saw and heard them clearly. The men, who were being chided by Afam for their indiscretion, began to rally around for some money for the soldier.

David Ogbechie, the Odogwu of Obomkpa, was interpreting for the community. The soldier spoke only Hausa, a language Odogwu was so good in, he could teach a Hausa person how to speak his language.

The two men Afam nwa Osia took aside to chide were Bọi and Ọbo. You were wrong in what you did. The yam belongs to Igbo refugees who are gone to their homeland. They are not coming back to harvest their yams because of the war. So it became public property. Have you not seen others harvest the same yams? Why did this go septic? We are sorry for what we did. Well, let us find something for this soldier so he does not go back empty-handed, suggested Afam. Bọi brought out the money he had on him, about eighty pounds. Well, I have some money myself, but it is not here. It is at home. Let me run fast to get it. I will be right back. Ọbo made for to leave to get his money. Just then there was a wicked twist.

As they were discussing this, Anwuli nwa Uduje walked up from Idumu Ishine side. He did not even seem to know what had been going on. He seemed to just be strolling around when he chanced upon the scene at the king’s palace. He asked and was told by some bystander who did not know the details of how things came to this point something to the effect that some soldier had been called by Jibunor to kill those who attacked him on his way back from the farm. That man Jibunor surely wants everybody dead, the woman remarked. (The exact conversation is close.)

Anwuli saw Afam and the two men as they consulted as he was walking up toward the palace. When he got close enough he asked what the consultation was all about. He was amply told, "We are trying to appease, that is, give something to the Soja Jibunor brought so he can go."

Get out of my face. Don’t you know me? I know the road too if you do not. If you want, I will take you around this country to as far as you want to go. The knowledge of the road is not Jibunor’s exclusive possession. Who does that man think he is? I know the way too. Just put that money in my hands and I will show you that I can outwit him. Give me that money right now and you will see what I can do. If you send this soldier away this time with bribe and appeasement, Innocent, by tomorrow, will be walking around like a peacock, as if he has more than two testicles. Hand that money to me. I will show you what I can do. Just put the money in my hand and watch what will happen next. These were Anwuli’s comment. Afam and the two men, Bọi and Ọbo, were just looking at him, as if to make sure he was not teasing them. He literally snatched the money from Afam’s hand as he was counting it and walked up to the front of the palace. He did not fully enter inside. He just stood at the door, leaned inside, and said to the soldier, Officer, can I see you please. The soldier followed him outside. He took him to one corner as I watched. I called out to Anwuli and said, Do you realize that you and this Jibunor you are conspiring against are related by blood? Get out, he retorted as he pulled the soldier to the back of the palace. I kept watching what he was going to do. He brought out a sum of money from the money he snatched from Afam, I know not how much, and gave it to that soldier. As he gave him, he said, You see that man inside, the one that is heavily bearded, his name is Innocent. I want you to torture him in the presence of everybody. He is such a proud S.O.B. that thinks he is better than everybody. This soldier took the money from him, loosened his belt, put that money in his underwear pocket, and dressed himself back up again, pulling up his trouser and belting it. Then he walked back into the palace.

Who is Innocent here? I am, officer, my husband said. Come out here. And suddenly, there was an uproar as happens when a goal is scored in a stadium. The tide had turned. This soldier began to flog my husband on all sides. The relatives and sympathizers of those who had been receiving Koboko whips at first shouted for joy. My husband’s brother Okeleke and Mawaa, his cousin, stood up and walked away, stunned. They were helpless. The air began to smell with the smell of death. I thought there that I was going to lose my husband that day. I could only hear him say continually, I beg sir, I beg sir, etc. His opponents were now high-fiving each other. That’s right, we got him. He is not that much after all. The soldier relentlessly, ceaselessly, and unendingly was flogging him. The Odogwu of Obomkpa, David Ogbechie, the interpreter, was stunned. He had his hand over his mouth as he watched the unfolding. After watching helplessly for a while, he began to talk in Hausa to the officer. He held this soldier’s Koboko and began pleading. Then the man stopped whipping my husband. At the end, my husband was put in the military Jeep the soldier came in and was whisked away to I don’t know where. As the vehicle pulled away, some of the men involved in the attack mounted their bicycles and began riding along from behind. Later that day, I heard that they took him to Umunede.

***

I went back to John Jideonwor’s compound where we lived that time. I went home lifeless and helpless. My lips were gray as they dried out without warning. I thought my world had suddenly come to an end. I did not know how to pray, so I just stared into space, looking for help to come from above.

As I stared, it began to draw toward evening. I stared and stared and stared.

Then, like a dream, somebody appeared from beyond the horizon. At first it was a silhouette; I could not make out the figure to know who it was. As he came closer, his figure showed clearer, and his identity became apparent. It was a man named Alana.

Alana was my husband’s best friend. Innocent calls him Alana nwa Nnebuchi. He must have been from Oko-Anala. He had just come to visit his friend, Innocent. Before now, Alana had arranged with my husband to bring a soldier about to go to the war front to Okolo Nwasor, my husband’s nephew. That soldier, a man called Ete, came with him today. It was for fortification before the soldier departs. That arrangement was the hand of God that brought Alana today.

Mrs. Jideonwor, he called out at me. Where is Innocent, your husband? he asked jokingly. I began to narrate to him the event that had gripped the whole community since morning, or was it since last night. When he heard that the reason for the whole trouble was because some people harvested Ji Igbo, he was appalled by it. He got indignant. He asked why this is the only town where that had become a big case. Everybody from all the towns and villages in our area who had Igbo migrant workers that had now run home to their Biafra homeland is harvesting and selling the same Ji Igbo. Why is that big trouble in this town? They harvest these yams everywhere, including my own town. Well, I said, it is all beginning to look like a case of ‘bargain’.

All those involved in this conspiracy to destroy him, made up of a select group of those who waylaid him, are members of the erstwhile N.C.N.C. While the proceeding was going on in the king’s palace, I saw a side conference by the side of the fallen Orji tree. It was a select few of the attackers. They were called to that side conference by Ashikwe and were all members of erstwhile N.C.N.C. They talked about going to Olona to initiate theft proceeding against Innocent. This they did when they began to receive hard questions from men like Nke-ekwu and Ajukwu and also Ezeka, the king. They knew they were going to lose the case so they began to confer alternatives. This was before that soldier man came. So I told Alana that this case is taking the shape of what we call Ikpe bagin, (bargain case). When a number of people conspire together to bring a charge against someone out of spite, we call it Ikpe bagin. N.C.N.C. members seemed to be conspiring against an A.G. man just like it happened before military rule began.

3

Members of the National Conference of Nigeria and the Cameroons (N.C.N.C.) and Action Group (A.G.) were erstwhile political enemies in the politics of bitterness that was practiced in the first republic, as the pre-civil war Nigeria is sometimes referred to. My husband was a staunch member of the Action Group (A.G.). Back in the days of first republic politics, the two groups often made trouble with each other. I remember one occasion when N.C.N.C. had won an election. Members of that party in our town began to celebrate. They danced around the whole town, not necessarily to jubilate for the victory, but more to provoke and mock A.G. members. When they got to the front of our compound, they pitched their stand there. They did not continue their movement as before. Instead they stayed there and danced and danced, just to provoke my husband. They pitched there singing derogatory songs about the A.G. My husband just looked on as they did all that.

And then, as if that was not enough, these N.C.N.C. members began to desecrate our compound. They would dance to the side of the bush, grab some debris, whatever their hands could grab, and dump it in the compound. And then they went back and got more debris and trashed the compound even more. After they left, I saw my husband pull out the window of our house and disappeared. Later he reappeared with the police. And soon the news came that N.C.N.C. members had been arrested for breaking our window. They were charged with vandalism, but I know that my husband pulled it down with his hands.

Later that month, we were home when my husband was arrested for some false, drummed-up charge. He was accused of pouring kerosene into the fish and other food items that Adafor, Kabulu’s wife, sold in the market. Apparently, N.C.N.C. member had deliberately doused her merchandise with kerosene and took it as evidence to the authorities that Innocent of A.G. did it. Right there my husband was arrested. Sadly enough, it happened on my son, Agbor’s, birthday. The birthday meal was cooking in the kitchen when he was picked up. He never tasted it.

And trust him. Soon he had his revenge. As Ibiegwei was in the mud pit in Olu Aja (mud work) as they built the house of one of their kinsmen, Ọbo and his brother, Okafor, were arrested on some senseless charge that A.G. brought against them.

Such was the politics of those days. But all that had ended, we thought, with the advent of Military Rule in the country. Now I know that it is not over.

***

Anyway, after Alana had heard the story of what happened in this Ji Igbo (Igbo yams) gang fight, he asked me why Innocent was taken to Umunede instead of Asaba, which has jurisdiction over our town. Unbeknownst to me, Alana was a man of influence in the military. He was a military informant, so he had clout. After I named the conspirators, Alana stumped out of my sight, angry like a lion robbed of his whelps. Actually, before then, he asked to know if there is anybody related to Jibunor who could come with him to Asaba to lodge a formal complaint. Then, and then alone, could he take action. Short of that, he will find it hard to do anything to help. I took him to Okeleke, my husband’s elder brother.

On getting there Okeleke repeated to Alana what we have found ourselves embroiled in since morning. It is all because of Ji Igbo. That should not have caused any trouble because everybody everywhere that had Igbo migrant workers is harvesting these yams because the Igbos ran home to Biafra because of the war. Alana stood speechless for a few seconds, looking at the ground and calculating something, gedunken. Soon he looked up and asked Okeleke, just like he asked me, if there is a family member who will be willing to travel with him to Asaba to lodge a complaint so he can see what he can do to help his friend Innocent. Okeleke said, I am the only person here and I can’t go because I am not educated. My son Ikechukwu just married his wife newly, so he can’t go. That’s how few we are in this family. Oh! Alana was disappointed, and it showed on his face.

Just then again, we heard a young man, passing and whistling by. It was Atuinyi nwa Alege of Ogbe onei, my husband’s friend. He had been out of town all day. When I looked and saw him, and knew that he must be heading to our place in John Jideonwor’s compound, I called at him. Atii, I am here. Oh, sister, you are actually the person I was going to see. I came back from Ezi this evening and my mother began telling me what has been going on in town since morning, Atuinyi said. "Yes o, that’s what we have been witnessing ourselves. And it is Ji Igbo that caused all the trouble was my reply. Atuinyi was not happy at all. Especially because it happened in his absence. He was sad that he was not there to help his friend. So what is next? What are you people doing to help him? Atuinyi asked. Well, this man Alana is the only person who had offered to help, but his hands are tied. He wanted us to give him a willing family member to travel to Asaba with him to lodge formal complaint. Then can he do something. But nobody seems willing to help. Well, I can go, Atuinyi jumped in. Surprised, Alana looked at him, and asked, Are you sure? Why not? I will go with you, Atuinyi said enthusiastically. Then get ready let’s move now because time is of the essence." Atuinyi turned around from there, got home, dressed up, and came back in no time. Alana took him and they left.

4

After Alana left, I began to reflect on life, as we know it, in this town of Obomkpa. What a town, and what a kingdom divided, I said to myself. I began to ruminate the stories of old, both experienced and heard, about this one town. God, why did you create and place me in this town, of all places? I asked God in my frustration. I remembered the story of Efi in Obomkpa as my parents told it to me. Efi, the cattle, made wealth for the owner, and many people had them in Obomkpa, as well as the surrounding communities. But the story of the bovine in Obomkpa took its own wicked twist. People woke up one morning and found out that the cattle in Obomkpa had learnt how to hurt their human neighbors. At night, all Efi in the town will file out in a long procession to farms some two to three miles removed into the forest. The cattle, upon getting to a farm, will eat up all the crops, as much as they can eat. The rest they just destroyed with their teeth. So a man would go to bed having a farm with his hope built on it and wake up having nothing but a wasteland. It was extra unusual for the cattle to travel that far into the forest at the dead of the night. It was also terribly unusual that this only happened in Obomkpa but did not happen in any of the surrounding towns and villages. Out of desperation, people began to fence their farms with bamboo woods.

This deterred the bovine for just one or two days, and then the cattle in Obomkpa suddenly learnt to jump high fences to enter and destroy farms. They did not just go there to eat. They ate what they could, and the rest, they deliberately destroyed with their teeth. This became a big controversy in town. Something needed to be done to stop this bovine destruction. A solution needed to be proffered, and that very fast.

***

The first break in the case came by chance. A girl was coming back from the stream late one evening. She was getting to the outskirts of town when she saw two women walking leisurely in the opposite direction. This girl thought that these old women were going to the stream. She wondered why they would be heading for the stream that late in the day when she knew that nobody was left in the stream to help them with their load. This girl was the last person to leave the stream that day, and since she had been returning, she saw no person, man or woman, going to the water source. So she feared that these women would have a hard time getting any help should they need any in the stream. After the parties had passed each other and having just walked a short distance, she turned to tell the old women that there was nobody else in the stream to help them with any load they might have. She had thought that they were only going there to convey something back to the village. It was getting dark fast.

As she turned to tell them that the stream was empty, she saw a strange sight. These two women untied their wrappers, swung them in the air, round and round, about two or three times, and then, as she looked, these women turned