Of Titles, Spirits and our Ancestors

 

The sound of the confrontation floated in from the street, over our perimeter fence, through the matted leaves of the orange tree heavy laden with ripe fruit, into the decrepit abandoned and long forgotten Biafra civil war ‘bunker’ where the neighbourhood boys and I were busy crafting the mask of a juvenile Agaba masquerade. The bunker, which for some reason survived the civil war by over two decades, had become our private hideout, not exactly the devil’s workshop but our own secret lair where we could get up to all sorts of antics unseen by the ever roving neighbourhood adults’ eyes. Just like the bunker, our Agaba’s mask was made out of corrugated iron roofing sheets better known as ‘gbam-gbam’. A mouth, eyes and nostrils is carved into a flat gbam-gbam sheet, tufts of animal hair glued above the eyes to serve as bushy and menacing eyebrows and then the entire contraption wrapped around and nailed to a flat piece of wood which served as the roof of the mask. Two animal horns are adorned on the roof in an arch, while any free space between the horns was cluttered with harmless looking plastic dolls known as ‘doll-baby’ and bright pieces of mirror. The masquerade’s body, or better put, suit, was made from sewing little flat pieces of gbam-gbam, or the bowls of aluminium spoons (the stems are cut off and two holes to aid attachment drilled at the base). The resultant effect was a gleaming chainmail suit that clattered anytime the masquerade took a step. A raffia skirt adorned with colourful strips of red and yellow cloth made up the rest of the apparel....and of course there was the gleaming machete. A gleaming machete was part and parcel of the masquerade’s persona for the Agaba was known as the fiercest masquerade in the land. It was even said that ‘Agaba kote okwu, odili obodo’, that whatever problems caused by an Agaba, (for it was in the nature of an Agaba to cause trouble), is left for the community to resolve.

A beautiful and well crafted juvenile masquerade was a ticket to any major ‘Ndasu Ozu’ or ‘Ogbugba-Uta’, the two staged burial ceremony that Awka people practised. Propelled by the adrenalin pumping tunes emanating from two acolytes playing ‘Ogene-Isi-na-abo, ‘two pronged iron gongs’, and the rest of the acolytes’ chants of ‘Mmanya anyi oh! Okuku anyi oh! Mmanya anyi oh! Okuku anyi oh! We will not leave till you appease us with our drinks and a cockerel’, if the bereaved family found our entertainment pleasant, they would bid us farewell with drinks and a cockerel. This is asides from takings from other adults who saw our antics, not as the nuisance it was, but as a preservation and perpetuation of Awka culture. Reserved for those ‘stubborn’ adults who did not appreciate our art was a flourish on the ogene accompanied by chants of ‘onwero ife O nyelu anyi oh! onye oshi okporoko! Lets go home, this stockfish thief is stingy! At which point we were typically chased, more like hounded out of the venue by the incensed adults.

It was a known fact that many of the adult masquerades that attended such functions where protected by very powerful juju charms and many a time, confronted or humiliated each other by a display of the potency of their juju. Thus when my cousin, Uche tua-tua suggested we get a juju to protect our masquerade, it didn’t sound as such a bad idea at the time, particularly given that Uche had ‘graciously’ located a ‘Dibia’, a native Doctor willing to manufacture a juju charm for us at a decent price. Don’t ask me what this charm was supposed to do. We became even more determined upon learning that a rival juvenile masquerade group in the neighbouring village had since procured a powerful juju charm from the same Dibia.

It was a long and fulfilling holiday for every parent in my neighbourhood for my co-conspirators and I worked ourselves to the bone, harvesting cassava, weeding the farm, selling fish or vegetables in the market, any enterprise that could earn us an extra buck to pay the Dibia for our Agaba’s Juju charm. A good thing that we didn’t have the money to pay for the charm upfront for while we were diligently working hard to raise the required money, the story of Ezike filtered through.

Ezike was a young rabble-rouser who feared no one. The ‘strongman’ in our rival juvenile masquerade group, he was known to be the one who advocated the making of their latest fierce Agaba masquerade thus the lot fell on him to ‘carry’ the masquerade post the acquisition of their new juju-charm. In the midst of Ezike’s initial protestations (he had a strong Catholic background) the Dibia assured him that in the event of a mishap, the antidote for any juju is for the masquerade to be dunked in a flowing body of water. Only after this assurance was given did Ezike concede to ‘carry’ the masquerade.

Our rivals always loved a big entrance so they choose the burial of an Ozo titled man in the commercial town of Nnewi to try out their new juju. This was clearly an uncalculated risk, problematic on several fronts. Nnewi is 33 kilometers away from Awka and would require that the children stowaway in a commercial bus or get a sympathetic adult to ferry them there. However even more insidious was the fact that burials of Ozo titled men typically attracted some of the most potent masquerades across Igbo land, some of whom would look for opportunities to try out their own new juju.

We were never told how they managed to arrive at the burial. What we know for sure was that the arena that hosted the burial was located a short distance from the ‘Mmiri Ele’ river, and that Ezike and his acolytes, had to cross the river on their way to the event. As soon as Ezike’s masquerade dashed into the arena, chanting the Agaba’s war-songs, brandishing his machete and new juju and headed for the ‘high-table’ where all the invited dignitaries where seated, he froze in mid-stride. First of all, it was clearly unnatural for a human being, or even a masquerade for that matter, to freeze in such a posture, machete pointing to the sky, right foot aloft, left foot yet to touch the dirt, raffia skirt hanging in the air, all as if the law of physics had suddenly ceased to exist around him, that his body had rejected gravity.

Pandemonium!

The village arena emptied of guests in a jiffy, save for the elders seated at the ‘high table’. Amidst Ezike’s guttural screams (through the mask) of ‘mummy mu oh!!’, ‘anwu kwanu mu oh!’, calling on his dear mother, ‘ Ezike’s acolytes, tears streaming down their cheeks, tried to wrench him back to earth by sheer force, eliciting more screams from the hapless Ezike. It was at this point that one of the elders, a grey old Native Doctor reknown for the potency of his juju charms approached the struggling kids, ‘umuazi naba nu, unu danyere okpo apiri onye ozo’, go home children, you have inadvertently fallen into a fist that was set to punch another. With this curt remark he brought out his snuff box, took a pinch with the nail of his right thumb, and tucked it deep into a grey hair tufted nostril. Ezike immediately came clattering to the ground in a thud of feet, pieces of metal and strands of his raffia skirt. Before his acolytes could recover Ezike took off like a rocket, followed in hot pursuit by his acolytes who immediately sensed where he was headed.  Ezike! Ezike! Ezike!! They pleaded, ‘ebuna ogwua danye mmiri!’ Please don’t dunk our juju in the river! But then Ezike was already at the banks of Mmiri Ele. He hesitated long enough to look back at his acolytes and scoff, ‘ala gbagbu kwa unu ebe ahu!’, all of you must be mad! ‘O bu ogwu ka muwa’ Is this useless juju charm more important than my life? A nalue echi agworo ozo’ When you get home tomorrow, you can make another charm. And with that he jumped into the river, juju, masquerade and all.

Ezike’s travails was sufficient to convince us to steer clear of juju and to keep our masquerade activities within our village, where we were all well known and no elder would try out his juju on us. Even Uche Tua Tua did not require further convincing after that incident.

So when the sound of the confrontation floated in from the street, we scampered out of our bunker to see who dared confront a spirit of the ancestors.

It was Ose Oji!

Oyeoka Mmadubuko was a kind-hearted disciplinarian, a renown wrestling champion as well as a traditionalist. His compound was protected by shrines of two fierce and very potent deities; ‘Arobunagu and Nneobo’. Many at times he would be seen making sacrifices of chickens to them, casting dismembered pieces of meat into the early morning sky with chants of ‘Uko lide’, calling on the hovering vultures to come down and partake in the feast, and come down they would, fearless, as if knowing that humans don’t hurt vultures who partake at the feast for their ancestors.

Masquerades, not even the Agaba masquerade dared challenge Oyeoka so it was clear that this particular Iga masquerade was not from our parts. My father had earlier told me that the sobriquet ‘Ose Oji’, alligator pepper, came from his uprightness and principles, for despite being a traditionalist, Oyeoka was always to be found on the side of truth, even when all the Anglicans, Catholics, and Pentecostalist found it more convenient to lie or be economical with the truth, not Ose, for he believed that ‘onye talu ose oji anaghi ekpuchi onu ya, o kpuchie onu ya, ose ekpo gbue ya’, that the man who is chewing alligator pepper cannot keep his mouth closed, a man who knows the truth should not keep quiet.

‘Mmanwu mu na ekene gi’, bellowed the Iga masquerade, my spirit greets you! To which Ose Oji calmly replied, ‘Great spirit! Nnukwu mmanwu! Ose Oji na ekene gi oh! Ose Oji greets you in return. ‘E na echem nche ka e na anim ani? ‘Are you guarding me or are you insulting me’ came the guttural roar of the Iga. ‘Who am I to insult you’ responded Ose, my work as a mere mortal is to guard you. ‘Chei!! Ose Oji do you know me?’ to which Ose Oji replied, ‘God forbid! I do not know you for the dead and the living do not mingle’. Pleased by these responses the masquerade danced away, momentarily pacified, not knowing that it just walked away from what will have been a colossal embarrassment, for Ose was physically and esoterically strong, no masquerade from our parts dared challenge him, he was a masquerade in human form. The Iga masquerade’s chant of ‘ejem ije ofu du mu una’, ‘now I have arrived at my destination, I have to find my way home’ would have been a self-fulfilling prophecy. You wouldn’t easily find your way home if you challenge Ose.

Oyeoka had a light spring to his step, as if the balls of his feet floated just above the ground. You could sense the raw strength in him, like a well wound-up leopard about to strike. I remember him teasingly telling me that my father was such a poor wrestler. In the past, wrestling was the most popular past time of Awka’s young men. The ‘Igba Mbe’ tortoise drums would beat out a pulsating adrenaline spiking rhythm that drove the sinewy sweaty men to challenge themselves to wrestling bouts whose primary objective was for one to pin his opponents back to the ground. Ose was ‘azu elu ani’ for his back was never known to touch the ground in a wrestling bout. He could wrestle down the strongest men in Awka and beyond yet he never allowed anyone to challenge my father. Even when my father, intoxicated by the heady rhythm of the pulsating Igba Mbe decides to challenge someone on his own; ‘Je nodu ani’ Ose will admonish him, ‘go and sit down and leave the wrestling to us’. When it comes to the white man’s book knowledge, ehe! then we will bring you forth. Awka will know that when it comes to ‘okpukpu-aka’ strength, we are well represented, even in the knowledge of the white man, we are there as well!

My childhood memories are awash with the image of Ose returning home from work, pushing along his ‘white horse’, the bicycle’s tinkling bell gaily announcing his arrival. And he almost always brought home ‘ife afia’ from the market, some delicacy or the other for his children from which we will gladly partake. Of all the many church going pious Christian neighbours that we had, Ose Oji’s house was one of the very few homes that my father allowed us to share their meals. With the many stories and legends at the time of malicious and envy driven fatal poisoning, that we were allowed to eat in Ose’s house said a lot about the level of esteem my father held him in.

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That evening, partly to hear his version of the confrontation and partly due to his penchant for telling unconventional and mostly unheard of folklores, the kids in our neighbourhood all trooped to Ose Oji’s house and cajoled him into telling us one of his wonderful stories. After he had us all quietly settled, sprawled out at his feet on raffia mats arranged in a semi-circle, munching away on cobs of roasted corn accompanied by grilled pear, Ose Oji pulled out his snuff box from an aged goatskin bag, cleared his throat several times and commenced his story;

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Long before the advent of the Christian faith the people of Awka believed that the human spirit or soul does not perish. For when a person dies it is his physical body that dies while the soul, spirit, or mmuo journeys to the spirit world. Masquerades are said to be our ancestors from the spirit world, he explained, who have come back to the land of the living on our bequest. As you can see, no real masquerade requires a juju charm for protection (a cold shiver ran down my spine for he said this staring straight at Uche Tua-Tua) for masquerades are benevolent, sometimes malevolent spirits.

An Awka man is not presumed to be ‘dead’ when his corpse is first buried. It was believed that ‘O jebelu ife’, that he has embarked on a long journey. His death is only formally announced the evening prior to his Ogbugba-Uta, the second funeral ceremony, heralded by a single gunshot fired from his ‘Obi’, his private den, bidding him god’s speed on his journey to the land of spirits. Thus in Awka an euphemism for death is ‘O naa mmuo’, he has gone to the spirit world. In days gone by, to help him on along his voyage to the spirit world, upon their death, a Vbum title holder was buried with his war shield, short ‘ube’ spears, machetes and a servant or slave, buried alive along with the corpse of the deceased to keep watch over him until his soul is ferried and accepted into the spirit world. So it was that a long time ago, ‘oge enu bu ana osa, mgbe ngwere di na ofu na ofu’ when squirrels lived only in trees and lizards where far and few in between, the towns’ sole ‘Vbum’ title holder embarked on the inevitable journey.

The Vbum title was the highest title in the land, the material cost alone was said to have broken many a great man so very few people ever took it. It was the preserve of only those who had taken all the other titles in the land; Agu, Amanwulu, Chi, Avbiajioku, Ajaghija and the prestigious Ozo titles. Unlike the other titles, only one man at a time could be bestowed with the Vbum. Most great men stopped at and where satisfied with attaining the Ozo title however it was said that the Vbum title was for those who were extremely wealthy, had numerous offspring and was essentially a sacrifice or thanksgiving to the gods for being blessed with a superabundance of everything.

Those days, the practise was that upon the death of a Vbum, whoever desired to take over the title had to sacrifice his eldest daughter, to be buried alive along with the deceased. Nwaimedi was the only child of her parents, as beautiful as the morning sun and renown in the whole of Igbo land and as far flung as Igalla and Yoruba land for her beauty, knowledge and kindness. When the Vbum died, her father was determined to take up the title. Nwaimedi’s mother was distraught. ‘Why must you take this title?’ she pleaded to an adamant and obstinate husband. Let someone else sacrifice their daughter. But Nwaimedi’s father had his sight set on the title, so his wife’s pleas fell on deaf ears. While his wife was crying and wringing her hands, he sent his emissaries far and wide to invite the greatest Chief’s and Kings in the land to his coronation. Invitations where extended to Eze Idu na Oba, the Oba of Benin, the Alafin of Oyo in Yoruba land and even the King of Ida Nwa Omacha, a small vibrant kingdom on the boundary between Igbo land and the Muslim North.

So it was that very early the next morning, long before the first cock’s crow, roughly at the time the first guinea fowl awakens, young men of the village stormed Nwaimedi’s home, bound her hand and foot, dumped her in a barrel and took her to Aja ofia, the evil forest. For custom required that preparatory to when a human sacrifice accompanies a dead Vbum on his journey, the human sacrifice undergoes a 12 market weeks, 48 days purification rite in the evil forest, tied and bound in solitary confinement.

Aja ofia was everything that it name connotes, it was the cemetery for all those who died the most unnatural and foul of deaths; those who died of elephantiasis of the stomach and those who desecrated the land by committing suicide. It was also said that the most malevolent of evil spirits resided there, however the same Aja ofia harboured the best of game and the most potent palm wine trees. The bravest hunters and palm wine tappers would gingerly venture along the peripheries of the forest to ply their trade and then, as tradition demands, leave their day’s game or frothing kegs of rich palm wine for their wives to retrieve.

A scared, dehydrated and exhausted Nwaimedi spent two full days and nights in the dense foliage of the evil forest, her only companions the chirping crickets, the singing birds and the occasional snarl or howl of a wild beast. On the third day she heard the first sign of human beings, the uneasy singing of a group of women, hunters’ wives on their way to fetch their husbands’ game. Singing at the top of their voices, they hoped to allay their fear of the forest and scare away any wild beast that could be laying in wait. To attract their attention Nwaimedi started to sing;

Igbudu ahia na aga nu oh! (Our market women are passing oh!)

Godoli godoo!

Igbudu ahia na aga nu oh! (Our market going mothers are passing oh!)

Godoli godoo!

Unu afulu nnem oh? (Have you seen my mother?)

Godoli godoo!

Ofia Awka na elie ewu (Forests in Awka accept a goat sacrifice)

Ofia Igbo na elie ewu (Forests in Igbo land accept a goat sacrifice)

Ma nke nnam aju ewu (But rather than a goat my father has sacrificed me)

Godoli godoo!

Ofia Awka na elie ewu (Forests in Awka accept a goat sacrifice)

Ofia Igbo na elie ewu (Forests in Igbo land accept a goat sacrifice)

Ma nke nnam aju ewu (But rather than a goat my father has sacrificed me)

Godoli godoo!

O si si gbuelu ya Nwaimedi (He has asked them to sacrifice Nwaimedi)

Nwa di ka Imedi ka aga egbu (It is the innocent Nwaimedi that they want to kill)

On hearing this song from the heart of the evil forest, the band of hunters’ wives where so scared that they threw away the ‘ukpa’ baskets that they had on their heads and dashed out of the forest in a frenzy, screaming as if they had seen Ekwensu, the devil himself.

Later in the day, the palm wine tappers’ wives came to fetch their husbands’ kegs of palm wine. Just like their counterparts, the wives of the hunters, they sang at the top of their voices, hoping to allay their own fear of the forest. Again their singing was truncated by the Nwaimedi’s song.

Just like the earlier group, most of the women took to their heels, but this time around, three of them stayed back and hearts in their mouths, sought out the source of the singing. As they called out to Nwaimedi she raised her voice in further song, finally leading them to where she was bound. The women knew Nwaimedi very well for she was much liked by all. Despite her father’s wealth and her legendary beauty she was always to be found helping out with the sweeping of the village square as well as fetching water and firewood for the old widows, helping out whenever and wherever she could.

The three women conferred among themselves and then resolved to do the unthinkable. In an outright rebellion against tradition and culture, they untied Nwaimedi, and set her free. Run away my daughter, ‘gbaba ka ukwu gi ra’, ‘run as far as your feet can carry you’ they admonished. Run and never look back. May the kind gods guide your every step.

So Nwaimedi ran, and ran, and ran. Through ‘mmiri na asaa, agu na asaa, mmiri na asaa, agu na asaa, mmiri na asaa, agu na asaa , across seven dangerous forests, fording seven great rivers, traversed another seven evil forests and swam across a further seven deadly rivers, till she came to ‘Ida Nwa Omacha’, the progenitor of Ida town in present day Nigeria.

The young King of Ida was preparing for the long journey to Awka to attend the coronation of the new Vbum and was drawn out of his Obi palace by a commotion in his courtyard. The palace guards had brought a dishevelled and dirty Nwaimedi who was apparently found in the Ida market begging for food to eat. Even beneath all the grime her beauty shone out like a thousand stars. The King was immediately smitten. He beckoned on the women of his court to provide Nwaimedi with a hot bath, fresh clothing and warm food, and invited her to join him in his Obi later in the day for supper.

Over supper a rested and refreshed Nwaimedi narrated her travails to the King who while enraged over her father’s conduct became further besotted by Nwaimedi’s beauty and charm. It was evident that Nwaimedi herself was equally love-struck. Two market weeks into her sojourn in Ida the King asked Nwaimedi for her hand in marriage and she gladly accepted. The timing was even more auspicious as he wanted her to accompany him to her father’s coronation, not as a sacrificial lamb but as his queen.

When the Ida royal entourage arrived at Nwaimedi’s home, her father and the rest of the town’s elders where left in shock and awe; shock that Nwaimedi, who they thought was still bound in the Aja ofia was now a queen in a foreign land, and awe at the pomp and pageantry that surrounded her.

It is said that it was Nwaimedi’s travails that put an end to human sacrifice in the land, and gradually, even the Vbum title became extinct. Great men were contented with the Ozo title, for why should I spill human blood simply because I want to be seen as greater than all, they asked?

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There was no sleep for me that night, for there where malevolent masquerade spirits laying in wait under my bed; head hunters rummaging in the cupboard, frenetic chants of Godoli godoo in my head, and the occasional hooting of an owl in the Oji tree next door did not help matters at all.

It was a completely exhausted me that got out of the sweat drenched bed the next morning. I never touched a masquerade again.






Jekwu Ozoemene 2013