“Is anything the matter, Uzoebu the great wrestler? You should take some rest now. I know how bad you must have felt, but when a friend sees the other, they smile to make the old wounds go. What is….?” Emenike trailed off.
Uzoebu was afraid of being thought weak, so he pretended by accepting that all was well. That was the way of any Umudi man. He could die and accept that all was well. They were people who only believed in themselves and claimed superiority in everything. He gave a second thought and answered.
“When the god decides to slaughter a man, they flatter him with words. You are a kinsman who knows it all. What was my offence? They would have killed me and leave my sons alone for me. I am only an old fibre and of no use, but these children would be my successors when I am no more,” he said, grinding his teeth.
He was bitter. His face had changed and the veins in his face outcropped.
He lowered his face and shook his head sadly. They were silent now. He could cry if he had continued talking.
“I know. I well know. I know it all, my brother. What a man sees and cries could make a woman cry out blood from her eyes,” he said in sympathy.
“Emenike, how can it be well when all my children have died and the gods have refused to answer me well? How can I be suffering from another person’s problem? I wish I never met you that afternoon,” he said, dropping his face.
Emenike sprang to his feet and looked up at the sky.
“A man does not go on crawling when he has learned to walk. When did you become a shivering woman? You are known in the whole clan for your valour in war. Don’t think or talk like a woman. Have you forgotten Amanze? Did you make inquiry from the god if someone was against you or if your children had done something wrong against the clan?”
Emenike encouraged him and relayed the story to him, the story he knew well. It was a story committed to memory that needed to be dusted for times like this. It was his son Amanze, who would have been a man with at least two wives. He would have been a son to be proud of any day. But good things never lasted. Emenike who was sitting outside his obi making thatches from leaves of raffia palm wine led the way into the main obi.
Uzoebu had refused kola. A man did not eat with tears in his eyes. Emenike understood.
“It was during our last rainy season and farming season. The priest of the gods of crop was nowhere to be found. Many rumoured he had gone into hiding. Others said he had been seized by the gods. People needed to go into farming. It had rained and rained in other clans, but had not dropped in Umudi. It was the first memorable fear in Umudi. Something was wrong. When the gods go silent, they could be hungry for blood or attention. I was still young and have known nothing. I was doing things because I needed to follow the ways of the clan. You know we were young then, but we saw it all. I was fearful for them and you know I was still new to the rules of ozo title. It was my old uncle that guided me thoroughly. I was newly initiated into ozo title because of my achievement in war with our neighbouring clan.”
He stopped and cut out a sizeable kola from a lump he was holding in his hand and chewed it slowly. He was thinking again. A man did not rush words. He ate words with caution.
Ozo was the title a man took as soon as his wealth and prestige were great enough to warrant that his voice be sought in communal decision-making. It was for achievers or children of great achievers. As one aged in the society, his level increased in the ozo cult.
“In that early evening, fear seized everyone. The drum beat. It does not lie. It speaks what one does, whether good or bad. The sound of the drum already tells the message it carries. It carried an unusual voice. The few stars in the heaven suddenly disappeared and went back to Chukwu. The earth was silent. We were watching what would happen next. We knew the gods were angry, but they could not just kill us without first hearing our voice. Now the drum was beating dimmer and dimmer. It was unusual for Oduma to beat over seven times in four market days, but it was to the surprise of everyone that it did that season. Those were times when Umudi had real men. With little question and beating of the gong by the village gong beaters, they launched into action. The nze n’ozo titled men were to urinate at a spot to see it foam. They gathered to confer on how best to carry on. It was no longer for their good. There was a gathering at the village square to dish out with reasoning and questions from the tone of the beating what was amiss. I too was called as a junior nze to sit and hear the discussion. Asiegbu stood up, sad faced as to the tone of the beating and said his greetings. He was still a man with three wives, but had somehow aged.
“I have been in sober mood, reflecting over the constant beating of the Oduma. We don’t need to be asked or ask why it was so. A wise child watches the face of his father to know when he is angry. We are the children of the land and we should know when our fathers speak to us with their eyes. We have been called in his obi. We don’t know why. You don’t spit out excreta in the stomach. Thus, with little waste of time and formalities, we shall delegate three men, I and other two able-bodied men, to the priest of Oduma. This kind of outing is not for the old or men without heart. It is for the brave. We know he must be angry. He had gone out of view for long. We want to know what he said is going to befall us. We are Oja favourite, that we know, but we must not forget that a bird regurgitates half-digested food to feed its young is just for love. She is not indebted to them. We must not fold our hands because Oja promised of guarding us; he is the one making this call. Ndewonu,” he concluded and sat down.