Water!

The Igbos of eastern Nigeria say that ‘mmiri bu ndu’, ‘water is life’, and as a growing child, nowhere was this more evident than in my village. Water was used in grandma’s cooking, was used to ferment cassava (preparatory to grinding, frying and turning it into farina ‘garri’), water was used to clean the house, bath, wash our teeth, and prepare the bitter-leaf used in grandma’s mouth-watering ‘ofe-onugbu’ soup. For us, just like every other human being, water is life, but clearly our own life giving water was very hard to come. Back then, the roof of every house in the village was designed as a rainwater collection and reticulation system, to ensure a steady supply of water during the rainy season.
The real problem however, was the dry season. Unlike today when almost every household has installed their own water-borehole, then the closest source of drinking water was down the almost vertical and treacherously slippery slope to the ‘Ofia-Chi’ spring, located three kilometres away in the neighbouring Umu-Eri village. Sited five kilometres away, piedmont a less treacherous slope in Umu-ujagwo village, was the often muddy Obibia stream which served for swimming, fishing, washing clothes and doing a myriad of other household chores. Since water was very hard to access, everyone had to do their bit to make it available.
So it was that early every morning, during the school term, long before the first cocks crow (roughly at the time guinea fowl awakens), a human caravan of children will be seen briskly snaking through the morning dawn towards either Ofia-chi stream or Obibia river. Some of the children in these caravans will have been hastened along by their parents spitting in the dust before they set out. Arriving from the stream after the coagulated spit had completely dried and dissipated into the dirt will attract a severe beating. So to proactively avert a flogging, we came up with two remedies; one diabolic, the other practical. The first remedy was a practise that was claimed to have esoteric origins. It was alleged that tying a sheaf of elephant-grass in a bow will slowdown the drying process of the spit, or induce some kind of ‘forgive-child-who-arrived-late-from-the stream’ selective amnesia in the target parent. It was a common sight for the narrow path to the stream or river to be dotted with bows and bows of clumps of elephant-grass, all bowing and dancing in the early morning breeze like sweet little green maidens.
I am not sure this ever worked.
Many a child was flogged thoroughly despite executing the elephant-grass tying remedy to the letter. The second and more practical remedy was to conscript a younger sibling, not old enough to join the water fetching caravan, to keep the spit in the dirt constantly moist, through an intermittent ‘new-spit-refill’ or by constantly adding droplets of water. This could easily be achieved by pledging ones share of the next meal’s piece of meat to the rascally little one. Reneging on this pledge could attract dire consequences for both the water-fetcher and the spit-refiller. Usually, bearing the consequences in mind, all parties happily kept to their own side of the bargain.
Often times a caravan column will meet another column comprising friends or neighbours, all balancing an assortment of water filled containers on their heads; jerry cans, clay pots, metal buckets etc. This usually signalled that the caravan still on its way to the stream or spring had departed late, a very bad sign as fetching water will not be the only chore for that morning, all the children will have to sweep the portion of the house and compound allocated to them, hurriedly take their bath (some would chose to do this at the stream to make better use of time), gobble down a lukewarm breakfast, a rehashed ‘igha-li-gha-li’ leftover meal from the previous night’s dinner, and then dash off to school, black and red rectangular tin school box clanging away on the portion of their head that a short while ago daintily balanced a bucket of water.
A good day was that you made it into the school gate to join your colleagues right on time. A bad day was that some two hundred metres to the school gate you hear the clanging of the morning assembly bell, usually followed by the squeaking sound heralding the shutting of the poorly greased gate. By this time, an ‘atulu-angha’ cane-wielding male teacher and a select group of leering huge and hairy, obviously over-aged primary six boy-men will be manning the gate to apprehend all latecomers.
The feeling one gets at this moment is as if you have arrived at the pearly gates of heaven (you are on the Hell side of the border by the way), and it didn’t help that the school gate was a massive white painted wrought iron structure, with a crucifix perched on top, and that just a couple of meters behind the gate was the imposing front door of the Saint Faith’s Pro-Cathedral.
Out of your line of sight, you can hear the school brass brand drumming up a racket of the only tune they ever play;
Tikarika tikarika ti ka ti ka
Tikarika tikarika ti ka ti ka
Accompanied by pupils marching and gustily singing to;
Ofe Miss-anyi tere ta!
Nta ku nta ku!
Ofe Miss anyi tere ta!
Nta ku nta ku!
Ogiri no dey!
Azu adiro ya!
Kara fish e no dey!
Nta ku nta ku!
E no dey!
Nta ku nta ku!
Our Class-Mistress burnt her soup today
She forgot to add ‘ogiri’
She forgot to add fish
She even forgot to add crayfish
I vividly recollect that one day, after a long spell of having her pupils deride her daily during the morning assemblies, one of our ‘Miss-anyi’, popularly known as ‘mkpo-lipstick’ (tube of lipstick) forced us to change the song to read ‘Mama-anyi’, our mothers, conveniently turning the joke on us.
I guess that thinking about the song was my brain’s way of shutting out the inevitable searing pain that was about to race across my buttocks. If you have ever been flogged on your backside before you will learn that the human backside has an infallible residual memory that forces it to perspire though your ‘nwafor-seven-colours’ multi-coloured underwear and twitch involuntarily anytime it is within two meters of a swishing ‘atulu-angha’ cane. But then my mind refused to stop wandering, so I forced it to interact with more tranquil thoughts.
Just the previous night, after the evening meal, when all the chores had been done, thinking that I had caught grandma at the best time, when she was in a very good mood, I pleaded with her to move our water fetching routine from the wee hours of the morning to after school hours. My argument, which I thought was water-tight, was that provided we had enough water to take our baths in the morning, fetching water after school hours will enable us conduct this assignment at a more leisurely pace. But my wily grandma will have none of it! First of all she did not want anything to infringe on our homework study sessions, and secondly, she rightly suspected that I was looking for an excuse to dodge doing my homework.
‘Mmiri bu ndu’, grandma sagely reiterated, very much so that over the years, watering holes, springs, and fishing ponds have been the source of great wars between erstwhile friendly towns and villages. Even back in the day ‘mgbe enu bu ana Osa’, when the sky was the home of the squirrel, ‘mgbe ngwere di na ofu na ofu’, a time when lizards where far and few in between, a gourd, a mere gourd of water almost cost Nwa ajilija her life.
XXXXXX
It was said that Nwa ajilija grew up to be an exceptionally beautiful lady. It was also said that intermittent whispers within the village gossip ecosystem still hinted at a connection between Nwa ajilija and the spirit world, though after a while these whispers gradually faded, paling in significance to her enchanting beauty. Even the derogatory sobriquet, Nwa ajilija, soon gave way to the name she was given at birth, Ifesinachi, and then her voice….it was said that Ifesinachi had the most melodious and sonorous voice ever heard by anyone living or dead, and that when she let go of her voice, ‘o ra onu ya aka’, even birds paused in mid-flight upon hearing her voice, several dropping right out of the sky to their utter astonishment.
Ifesi, as her friends called her, was a popular sight around the village, ever ready to lend a helping hand, especially to the widows who had no child, no one to help them. She was regularly seen trudging the path to ‘Ogba’ the local spring, ensuring that she filled all the water pots in her house, before she proceeded to do the same for the homes of the aged widows in the village, even helping them to do their laundry when required. Ifesi was a gem. It was very common to hear an elderly woman or man refer to Ifesi in conversation ‘nwatakiri ahu na ejechi ozi anya, omefu ya amaka’, that child is really industrious, she is such a good natured and well behaved person’. It then wasn’t surprising that in a short while there was a long line of suitors asking for her hand in marriage.
On the day of her marriage to Ejike, the son of Nwaokafor the great yam farmer, it was a very proud elder brother Eke that gave her away, tears of joy in his eyes (his younger brother, Afo’s gentle nudge to his rib and an admonished ‘nwokem men don’t cry’, only triggered more tears). After the festivities, her brothers, Eke, Afo, Orie and Nkwo, none of who was yet to get married, stood in the courtyard in a daze, the setting sun casting an ominous glow on their faces as the village young women, singing and dancing led Ifesi to her new home;
O na! O na be ya!
O na! O na be ya!
Ifesi ana! Ona be ya!
O na! Ona be ya!
‘Ifesi has gone, she has gone to her home, Ifesi has gone to her matrimonial home’.
Ejike was very eager to get to work. He was set to inherit a wide expanse of farmland from Nwaokafor his father so he had to make sure that by the time the farms were bequeathed to him, he would have enough children and wives to cultivate them. On several occasions he was heard boasting that his new wife will soon start spiting ‘tufia’, ‘tufia’, as he was keen to get this child breeding thing on the way.
But that didn’t happen.
With the benefit of hindsight, the couple’s first six moons together was bliss. Ejike left for the farm early each morning serenaded by the beautiful voice of his loving wife. He returned every day to the delicious aroma of the evening meal wafting from the hearth. A quick shower, meal and reconnoitre of the village square (just to update himself with the goings-on in the village), he retires to his room with a glint in his eyes. Unfortunately, this mischievous glint started fading after the sixth moon, for even Ifesi grew weary, and her melodious voice now rang out tinged with a hint of despair.
By the ninth moon Ejike came back home with a new wife ‘Ogbalijaka’, grumbling that he needed as many wives and children as possible to enable him tend to his father’s vast farmland. Ogbalijaka had hardly settled in for two months when she started spitting ‘tufia’, ‘tufia’ just as Ejike predicted. While Ejike strutted around the village like a proud peacock, Ifesi was beside herself in consternation and sought solace in her domestic chores and her singing. Nine months later, Ogbalijaka gave birth to a baby boy, and couldn’t stop remarking, at every opportunity, how the boy looked every inch like his father. Ifesi swallowed her pride and added the bathing of the new baby to her daily chores hoping that her contact with a new born child will open her womb to receive a child of her own. The very next month it was Ogbalijaka that took in again, bore the baby full term and gave birth to yet another carbon-copy of Ejike. At this point Ogbalijaka could be heard telling whoever cared to listen that she had since become the senior wife as her barren mate could not give her husband a child. Still Ifesi swallowed her pride and continued praying, yet it was Ogbalijaka that took in the third time, the next month. It was now becoming difficult to convince Ejike to come to bed with her, ‘nwoke o na edina nwoke?’ How can my husband be sleeping with a fellow man? Smirked Ogbalijaka. Still Ifesi swallowed her pride and continued pampering her husband, teasing him into her bed with his favourite delicacies, sometimes offering, after a long hard day at the farm, to massage and anoint his aching muscles with ‘ude-aku’ palm kernel oil. By this time Ogbalijaka had become a conquering empress and had since stopped doing any domestic chores, leaving everything to Ifesi (is it my fault that she cannot have a child?). They somehow managed to maintain a barely acceptable level of civility amongst themselves and time went on.
Ifesi was almost four months gone when she realised she was pregnant. That one? Sneered Ogbalijaka, I am sure she is not pregnant, ‘O togo afo’, she probably has elephantiasis of the stomach. How can a man be pregnant? But then Ifesi went on to give birth to an enchanting baby girl. Ejike named the baby ‘Afuro ka eme’, ‘only because I don’t have a choice’, but Ifesi secretly named her ‘Munachimso’, ‘my personal god is always by my side’, Munachi for short.
Did I tell you that Munachi’s very first cry was as melodious as her mother’s singing? Ogbalijaka was infuriated and could be heard telling people, ‘so she has given birth to a girl? a singing girl’. ‘Did we tell her we are looking for a singing canary or a parrot? Is it a girl that will cultivate the family farm? How would a girl tend to her father in his old age? Aren’t girls supposed to get married and move to their husband’s house? At the end of which Ogbalijaka will let out a long evil hiss, mscheeeeeew!
One day, when Munachi was barely 5 months old, she experienced a bout of hiccups for which neither breast milk nor back patting could stop. A concerned neighbour suggested to Ifesi to give the baby a little water to drink. Only then did Ifesi realise that she was out of drinking water, so she dashed into Ogbalijaka’s house and begged Ogbalijaka’s eldest son for a gourd of water. The refreshing fluid was given to Munachi who promptly stopped hiccupping and started gurgling, waving her pudgy hands and legs in the air in glee.
It was said that all hell was let loose when Ejike came back from the farm later that day. He met a very angry and belligerent Ogbalijaka, who threatened to leave the household with her four sons, if Ifesi was not made to replace the water she took from her son that night. Ejike could not understand the logic behind Ogbalijaka’s demands but being the weak man that he was, he was not about to lose his four sons, the Nwaokafor clan’s future workforce, for a woman who could only manage to bear him a daughter. Shuffling his feet and barely looking her in the eyes, Ejike demanded that Ifesi fetch a replacement pot of water for Ogbalijaka that night.
This night? Cried Ifesi! Nna’m can’t you see that it is too late to go fetch water from the Ogba spring? ‘Who told you that my water was fetched from the Ogba spring?’ sneered a cantankerous Ogbalijaka. My water was fetched from the Ori Ngene river, and to that river you must go tonight. At first Ifesi thought she didn’t hear her correctly. Everyone knew that Ori Ngene was not just a river but was a very potent deity. It is said that at night, the Nne Mmuo, Ori Ngene’s River goddess, held court on the bank of the river. It was also common knowledge that only a handful of people in recorded history had visited Ori Ngene at night and returned with their senses intact.
At this point it was clear to Ifesi that Ogbalijaka had hatched this evil plan to get rid of her. She was still hoping that her husband was going to intercede on her behalf when she heard Ogbalijaka tell Ejike, ‘please take away Munachi from that evil witch’. ‘Better let her know that she would never set eyes on her daughter again if she doesn’t fetch my water this night’. With this, Ogbalijaka thrust an empty clay pot into Ifesi’s hands and pushed her out of the hut, into the dark cold and lonely night. Their husband Ejike just stood there like a lapdog, watching.
Ifesi was completely distraught, but faced with the prospect of life without her anchor to life, life without seeing Munachi again, with resolve in her heart and hot salty tears streaming down her face, she headed for the banks of Ori Ngene.
Even the birds that would typically twit gleefully whenever Ifesi was around, expecting to join her in one of her melodious tunes, where gravely silent. The wind was dead. Not even the owls had the courage to hoot, nor the crickets the guts to chip. It didn’t take much to know that something evil was afoot, something completely not of this world. As Ifesi approached Ori Ngene’s bank, she felt the nape of her neck crawl in terror, her head starting to swell, heart race like a hunted hare, as her skin was drenched in perspiration, alternating between hot and cold sweat.
She first saw it before she heard it...a green humming pulsating blanket of light, hovering just above the very still surface of the Ori Ngene river. She could actually see what appeared to be a translucent diaphragm that separated the intermittent pulses of energy from the now tranquil river. A sudden wave of energy sent Ifesi crashing to the ground. She cowered in fear, hyperventilating in sharp bursts of air, tinged by the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Suddenly she heard a beautifully evil voice in her head, from both sides of her body, echoing all around her.
‘Don’t I know you?’ The voice intoned. ‘For someone who has been here before and escaped with her life intact, you are extremely brave to venture back....especially at this time of the night. My dear Ifesi, you must know that I cannot let you go back, I will not let you tell the world what you have seen and experienced tonight.
Rather than further drive the fear and chill down her spine, Nne Mmuo’s words, the very thought of not seeing Munachi again, unleashed a violent rage, a fury she didn’t know she possessed deep inside her. Choking on her tears, a catch to her voice, Ifesi once again let her voice loose in her most melodious and sonorous song yet;
O Nne mmou bia ka nkara gi
I ni ne!
(Please River goddess, just let me explain to you)
O Nne mmou bia ka nkara gi
I ni ne!
(Please River goddess, just let me explain to you)
Nwunye dimu di njo
I ni ne!
(My husband’s second wife is wicked)
Ngara kuru mmiri nga enye nwa
I ni ne!
(I only borrowed some of her drinking water to give my ailing baby)
O si mu kwua ya ugwo mmiri nyere nwa
I ni ne!
(She says I must give her back the water I borrowed for my child)
Nsi ya echue mu Ogba, O si mu echuna Ogba
I ni ne!
(I offered to fetch water from Ogba spring and she said no)
Nsi ya echue mu Ogba, O si mu echuna Ogba
I ni ne!
(I offered to fetch water from Ogba spring and she said no)
O si mu chue Ori Ngene mmiri mmuo
I ni ne!
(She insisted that the only water she will accept is from Ori Ngene River)
O si mu chue Ori Ngene mmiri mmuo
I ni ne!
(She insisted that the only water she will accept is from Ori Ngene River)
Mmiri gburu amuma ka onwa na eti
I ni ne!
(Yet she knows that inexplicable lightning emerges from this River on the night of a full moon)
Mmiri zoro wamu wamu la na enu igwe
I ni ne
(Yet she knows an unknown force rises to the night sky from this River)
As Ifesi’s voice faded into the dark, there was silence, only punctuated by the cackling of the green pulsating electric force simmering over the river, and Ifesi’s chocking, muffled sobs. There was an audible gasp from the birds hidden in the trees (obviously watching the proceedings from afar) when Nne Mmuo responded in a quaint voice;
Ewoo nne nwa ndo!
I ni ne
(Sorry my dear mother of a child)
Ewo nne mmou ndo!
I ni ne
(Sorry my dear mother of a child)
Ndo ndo
Ini nee
(Sorry, Sorry)

Ndo ndo
I ne nee
(Sorry, Sorry)
At the last refrain of ‘I ne nee’ there was a thunder like cackling and burst of green electrical charges around Ifesi. The green humming pulsating blanket of light lifted off the surface of the water and covered Ifesi’s prone figure like a royal robe. Followed by a crack of thunder and a loud whistling sound, as if the portal to another dimension had been forced open. Ifesi could not bring herself to open her eyes, but then she suddenly felt as if she was in familiar quarters, a feeling that was confirmed when she heard Munachi’s happy gurgle.
Ifesi jumped to her feet to perceive Munachi lying on her bed, in her matrimonial hut. A quick self scan revealed that she had a lone gourd of water hanging from a rope around her neck, while the clay pot she had taken to the stream stood forlorn in the corner of the hut. Ifesi walked out of the hut into the bright mid noon sunlight, to see a dazed and mournful looking Ejike who on seeing her, recoiled as if he had just seen an apparition. It was only a number of days later that Ifesi was told that she had been gone for two days and had been given up for dead.
Ejike’s skin was covered by what appeared to be huge blister filled rashes, and when she emerged from her hut, Ogbalijaka’s skin was even worse than that of her husband. It appeared that the dreaded ‘Kitikpa’, the smallpox, had visited both husband and wife during Ifesi’s absence.
Ifesi triumphantly handed over the gourd filled with Ori Ngene water to the eyesore of what was left of Ogbalijaka and headed back to her hut to pick up her daughter. She gathered her few belongings in the hut and tied them in a wrapper. At that moment she knew exactly where she was headed, home to stay with her brothers. For some reason she also knew she was pregnant with a male child.
As an afterthought, just as she was about to exit the hut, she nudged the clay water pot, only to realise it was heavy. A cursory peep inside revealed that it was laden to the brim with precious stones, diamonds, emeralds and gold coins, definitely gifts from another dimension, her yet to be born son’s heirloom from Nne Mmuo.
XXXXXX
Somehow my wandering mind managed to capture the male teacher flogging the behind of one of the pubescent primary six girls. In accompaniment to the ferocious strokes on her rotund buttocks she was made to sing along to;
Angelina Ojeh late
(Angelina is a habitual latecomer)
O jeba ojeba ojea late
(Whenever she comes to school late, she is very late)
O naba anaba ona late
(Whenever she goes home, she goes very late)
Ebe ona ete pancake
(Because she spends so much time applying make-up)
Onwere ten percenti
(She can barely score ten percent)
Twenty percenti
(She can barely score twenty percent)
Thirty percenti
(She can barely score twenty percent)
I remember that just before one of the over-aged boy-male pupils dragged me by the scruff of the neck to receive my dose of the ‘aturu-agha’ cane, my last thought was that male teachers should not be allowed to flog female pupils as I could see the faint and increasing bulge in the pants of the teacher, each time his cane came smacking down on the pupils buttocks.

©Jekwu Ozoemene 2012