Dreams and Deeds

A young girl"s dreams are dashed under hard influence of culture and tradition.

The house was old and shabby; it looked so much like the hurried painting of an amateur artist who wished to depict what a typical African house looked like. There were so much of such drawings in Her Civic Studies Text book; of houses with crude shapes, two little windows and thatched leaves for a roof. There was a difference between her Father’s house and the paintings though, the roof was lined with corrugated iron sheets that once shone with a metallic brilliance but was now so old that it looked more like an assemblage of scavenged carton papers; besides it had holes in several places and leaked rain water constantly. Another difference was its unique shape which she often likened to a life size match box and instead of two little windows, it boasted of six windows in the whole of its five room space; a misfortune that accounted for the frequent occurrences of skin rashes and blisters she suffered for ventilation was a luxury the little house could hardly afford.

It often amused her that this house in which she had been born and which she held in as little esteem as she could muster was her Papa’s pride; the symbol of his glorious days. He often told them as was his habit when he counselled his children on the need to struggle through the mishaps of life and salvage the family from the grip of poverty, that he had been the First man in the whole of his clan to erect a house that had a corrugated iron roof. His pride had always been evident in his bragging and each time she watched him recount his achievements, it seemed as though he was almost healed from the gruesome back ache that gave him his characteristic stoop. Then, as he spoke his eyes lighting up from the very depths within his soul, she could almost imagine his gait straighter for it was only then that he arose to his full height and assume an arrogance which she suspected he had possessed in his youth.

“The community used to come in troops to pay a visit to the only house in Amala clan that had cement walls and a metal roof.” He would say, his voice slurred with the headiness of his vanity.

It was all in the past now and in the hierarchy of buildings that littered the community, hers was the least both in structure and design. How time changes everything! It was an aspect of life she still couldn’t grasp. Her father had said he built the house when he was only twenty six years old and since he was sixty five now, that meant the match box house was thirty years standing. That so much had changed in the design of houses within the years flinging this former pride of corrugated iron roof to such an obsolete distaste reminded her of how much she had changed with the years. She loved the bigger houses with their glossy roofing of slate tiles which came in different colours and textures. The buildings were always grand with front corridors larger than her Father’s square parlour and beautiful hedges of sweet smelling flowers lining the entrance to the compounds. Such houses were always fenced in with strong gates unlike hers which stood solitary in the middle of four houses that were twice as big and several standards better.

So much has been said of her Father’s house; perhaps it would be worthwhile to examine its inhabitants most of whom were as slovenly as the house was shabby. Take for instance, her Mother who regularly wore an oil streaked wrapper tied across her chest. She often secured the knot so tightly that it strained the bulge of flabby skin beside her armpits until the skin reddened and looked like an undercooked portion of beef. She suspected her Mother’s dishevelled hair and dirty wrappers was more an act of defiance than convenience because the woman worked in the Local Government Quarters as Council Clerk and dressed neatly to the office. Once her Father had expressed his displeasure over his wife’s deportment and her Mother whose measured words held a bite that was more poisonous than the venom of a rattle snake, reminded him in her hysterical manner that she had held the Family together since he was relieved of his demeaning job and such enormous responsibility afforded a woman neither pleasures nor gains. Then there were the twins, her only siblings who at twenty were eighteen months her junior and very much removed from her psychologically. They were of different sexes and neither resembled the other more than chalk resembled cheese. Obiora the boy twin was tall, his impressive height reconciliatory to his less attractive facial features. He consistently wore a scowl and never relented at the chance to hurl abusive words at their Father whom he insinuated had misused opportunities in his youth hence flinging the Family into the realm of penury. The fact that his academic pursuit in the University was solely funded by their Mother worsened his disregard for his Father. Towards his sisters he held no fondness constantly reminding them that they had the duty to marry into wealth and present the family with handsome dowries, a feat which neither she nor Ifeoma the girl twin had been fortunate to achieve and which further aggravated his disdain for them.

“Your beautiful face is as useless as the decorated head of a stuffed rag doll.” He would taunt her. “Even Ferdinand’s sister whose legs and face is filled with scars from mosquito bites landed herself a good husband and her family has benefited from the marriage.”

She would remain silent for she feared his heavy handedness more than his caustic words. He hardly abused Ifeoma who was as fiery tempered as he was foul- mouthed although it was no comfort that her sister was more of a rival than a companion. She was everything Ifeoma was not and her sister resented her immensely on that account.

“Are you two sisters?” the question had been asked repeatedly by teachers in their secondary school that it began to sound like the dull monotony of a badly played record.

“Yes we are.” Ifeoma would answer sourly, her round face puckered into a frown.

“It would be hard to tell, you look so different from each other.”

“I wonder why.” Ifeoma would reply and turn to give her a resentful look, her jealousy evident in her eyes for indeed the girl often wondered why she was short and pudgy and her nose twice bigger than her lips.

 In the whole household, she favoured her Father the most. He had dotted on her ever since she could remember indulging her with confectionaries which landed him into hot arguments with her Mother, who often admonished Papa that since she was the senior daughter and as custom eluded, held grave responsibilities towards the Family, she should be given duties not delicacies. It was not just the sweets that endeared her to Papa but his willingness to listen to her endless questions for she was exquisitely inquisitive.

“Papa, why does Mother insist I wed a wealthy man? Is it really my duty to honour the Family with a handsome dowry being the first daughter?”

She had asked this question seven years ago but the sombre look her Papa had worn as he replied etched deeply into her memory; his lack lustre grey eyes had appeared glazed and misty and it had reminded her of the way the clouds looked before a heavy downpour.

“It is not so much your duty as it is a matter of destiny. Your Mother speaks out of desperation.”

The only words she had understood had been duty and destiny and so our dear girl had dreamt of princes and castles; she imagined herself as Walt Disney’s Cinderella and her mother and the twins were the wicked step �"mother and her grumpy daughters. She had dreamt enthusiastically but she had failed in her deeds and because she was tainted with failure the Family had remained poor so much so that tonight, the watery yam porridge Mother had served for dinner was hardly sufficient. 

 

If you lived in this part of Africa and were visiting the village after a long sojourn in the city, you would welcome the whine of the mosquitoes for their harmonious whining would sound several times better than the brash honks of commuter buses; the croak of the frogs would sound better than the incessant cries of your neighbour’s kids and the occasional night bleats of the female goat in Heat cannot be compared to the shrill screams of fighting loafers in your street whose preference for night quarrels you cannot understand. You would cherish the whirl of the night breeze and the scent of mud earth it carries would be more refreshing than the stifling aromas of curry and chilli pepper from your neighbour’s kitchen. That was the beauty of the village, a beauty that was lost to its inhabitants especially those who had neither seen nor visited the city.

She was one of such and although she had read of cities like Lagos and Port Harcourt in her Civics text book, she didn’t know what they looked like even though they were part of her country.

“Your pursuit for Education would take you to different cities in the country. You could even visit the foreign cities if you were to win a scholarship or acquire a sponsor.” Her Civic teacher had informed them in their Third Form in Junior Secondary, strutting about like an arrogant c**k about to mate an un-submissive hen. She would watch him closely, her highly imaginative mind conjuring a large red comb and matching wattles that would complete his transition into a poultry bird. Then she would awaken from her imagination when the loud whack of the teacher’s whip on her back would snap her out of her reverie faster than its stinging pain.

“Adaora, I wonder what goes on in that beautiful head of yours.”  His glare reminded her of the look Obiora’s pet dog gave her when she had awakened it with a kick.

“I asked you what you wanted to study in the tertiary level.”

“Marriage” She had blurted out and was greeted by a chorus of ringing laughter from her classmates.

“Marriage?” her teacher had questioned staring at her as though she was some dim wit.

“I want to get married and save……….”

“What a waste of intellect!” the man had interrupted throwing her into the depths of confusion.

“However, there is some merit in your quest for a good marriage can transport you to big cities like Lagos even Accra in Ghana. I have a friend whose daughter got married to a guy in Paris.”

He began to lecture the little minds whose curiosity and willingness to learn matched those of their peers in some of the finest cities in the world. Their limitations which arose more from prevalent poverty than the lack of innovation, for this after all was the 21^st century, gave the inference that they were of an inferior sort. Yet these children, with shiny ebony skin that contrasted sharply with the brilliant white of their eyes were special; you would understand that when you got close to them. As for our friend, Adaora, her Teacher’s allusion of marriage as a means to visit the city, heightened her dreams to the point that when marriage came knocking on her door, a year later, she had willingly consented to her Parent’s demand that she left school and accepted the proposal. Just as her fifteen year old self had been swept off by the euphoria of fulfilling the marriage rites to salvage her family from poverty, she sat tonight on a low squeaky stool, inhaling the fumes of the kerosene lamp, her mind equally filled with dismal emotions. If you could unlock her mind at this moment, you were sure to find disillusionment. Then maybe if you rummaged further, you would discover bewilderment and a whole jumble of distorted feelings. She was pained tonight for what Mother wouldn’t be if she were to watch the life she had borne failing before her eyes. The child, Osinachi, was small for her age although that she had survived these six years was a miracle Adaora was grateful for. This waif-like child was truly hers and she cherished her more than she dared display since it was uncustomary to delight in a child who had been born before the marriage rite was completed.

 

African culture is very enigmatic; you need to experience it to cherish it. There are the good beliefs and the bad beliefs, the good witch craft and the bad witchcraft. There are traditions that would scare the s**t out of your pants just as there are some customs whose sweetness was synonymous to drinking traditionally fermented African wine.  Marriage customs in Eastern Nigeria was one of such sweet occasions; it was a carnival of sorts and perhaps the exotic part of it was that a single woman got to marry the same man several times over in a series of momentous rituals. It was even sweeter if the groom’s family was opulent, then the traditional rites would be spiced up with glamorous fashions that were sure to leave a lasting impression in the memory of the community. Adaora’s proposal had come from an affluent family.

“It has pleased the gods that we seek the hand of beautiful Adaora in marriage.” Her prospective Father in law announced to the umunna on the day of mmi ajuju the introductory rites of the marriage ritual.

“You have come to the right home.” An elder in Adaora’s family replied. He took a sip of palm wine from his gourd smacking his lips loudly when the frothy liquid passed down his throat. Several elders shook their head in agreement.

“We shall invite the girl before us so you confirm if she is the same Adaora you speak of.” Her Father said.

She had answered the summons eagerly bearing a tray of spiced dog meat which she set down on the single table and stood dutifully in the middle of the crowded parlour while several pairs of sage eyes inspected her as if she were some she-goat in the market place.

“She is the same girl we seek. Indeed Mazi you have a fair daughter. My son will be pleased.”

“Eziokwu! You cannot expect to find palm fruit under a bread fruit tree.”

The elders roared with laughter for the words were spoken according to tradition and its meaning had been understood.

“Her intended will be rounding up his studies next month.” Her future Father in law said as if reading her mind for she had discreetly scanned the faces of the men crammed in her Father’s square parlour, disappointed when no youth had been in sight.

“The boy is acquiring his degree in Europe.”  He continued. “But I guarantee he would be pleased with our choice of a wife.”

Instantly, her Father grinned broadly at the mention of Europe and Adaora who watched his animated expression was reminded of the look Obiora’s dog had given her when she set a bowl of meat bones before it, the previous day. Next Papa would be wagging his tail for it is one of those feats we Africans cherish, a consortium with the Western world because we have been indoctrinated to believe that all’s good that looks white so much so that we are willing to trade our shiny ebony skin for a pair of pale bottoms.

Ije abali ino is the second customary rites when the bride visited the groom’s home for a period that lasted between four days to three weeks. Just as she would scout the home to determine her compatibility, she was assessed by the family and if found unsatisfactory by the clan, then the marriage ritual was terminated.  On the day she was to embark on this visit, her father in law had fixed her with a penetrating look, his grey brows pulled tightly across his wrinkled forehead then suddenly he had smiled. When she knelt before him in greeting, he had pulled her up and wrapped her in a bear’s hug making sure her fifteen year old bosom was flattened against his barrel chest.

The family house had been grand; it was the kind she had always loved with the sweet smelling flowers and large corridors. Several days, she spent lounging about the large compound, noting the beauty of the whole place and taking time to conduct herself in an appealing manner lest she was found unworthy of the union. The three weeks had been spent and she had returned home without the slightest glimpse of her prospective groom and daunted to the point of depression.

 

Osinachi coughed, shattering the eerie silence of the night and startling Adaora who had dozed off on the squeaky stool one hand flung over the impoverished figure of the sleeping child; the other propped up on her elbow supporting her head. The kerosene lamp had burned out so she stood up wearily and stumbled around in the darkness till she lit the candle and brought it to peer at her daughter. She saw her world crashing down as she watched the quick breaths of the child, the outline of the tiny ribs jutting out of the pale skin. The fever that had begun that morning now burned up her skin so that when Adaora placed her hand on the child’s forehead she snatched it away with a low squeal. Child health care was rendered free of charge in the community clinic but the only drugs administered to the sick children were analgesics and anti-malaria drugs, then maybe if you were lucky you were given a mosquito net. Whispering soothing words to calm the fretting child, she squeezed the dripping rag cloth thoroughly and mopped her daughter’s forehead. Mother had stopped caring about the protracted illness two months ago when the Nurse in the clinic had indicated that the child needed to visit a specialist hospital in the city.

“She is anaemic and her immunity is low.” The nurse had informed them impatiently, her eyes never leaving the sheet in which she wrote.

Back home, her mother had asked “Don’t you think it is time to disclose who the Father of this child is? Is six years not enough to keep your guarded secret? This child should be taken to her family.”

She had hung her head and bit her tongue till she tasted the blood, her arms clutching her sick daughter to her bosom, incensing the woman’s rage.

“Who is the wretched fellow to whom this child belongs?!” Her mother had screamed hitting her hard across the face, splitting her lower lip.

The response she received had been the wailing of the frightened child.

“You will die with your secret.” She exclaimed, disgust evident in her voice; and that was the end of it.

 

 In the first light of dawn, Adaora set out to get herbs that would quell the diarrhoea. The early sun was just peeking shyly out of the clouds, as uncertain as a new bride on her first night. She moved briskly stopping occasionally to greet the early risers on their way to the farm. Passing a grand house, its shiny red roof glistening with dew drops that were beginning to melt from the warm rays of the sun, she was suddenly seized with a repulsion so great that she shuddered and moved as far away from the huge gates as she could. These houses were beautiful but they enclosed some of the ugliest deeds.

 

The young day shivered with a slight breeze upsetting the stalks of some of the plants so that they appeared to be waving her a hello as she stepped into her ancestral land, savouring the feel of the clammy earth on her bare feet. Everything was green; food crops, pasture, herbs even poisonous reeds. As she moved through the bush, examining plants stretching towards the warm rays of the early sun, her mind filled with nature’s goodness. She had learnt the administration of herbs during her bridal visit because her proposed mother in law was a seasoned herbal doctor. The woman had treated her nicer than her Mother did so it had been a shock when she had rejected her during the third marriage ritual, the rites of acceptance. But once the heart had been poisoned, it couldn’t discern right from wrong.

“We desire the best for our only son.” She had said shattering the expectations of the assembled women who had been eager to participate in an affluent feast.

“When you put a hot palm fruit in your mouth, you cannot help but spit it out immediately lest its juice scald your tongue.”  She had spoken words from tradition and its meaning was clearer than the morning sky on a bright day. Adaora hadn’t known what had been said with the umunna but Papa had mopped around the house for days refusing even to speak to her. The worst had come from her Mother when the nausea had started and her stomach had blobbed out like a deflating balloon.

“It is now evident why you had been rejected. How long have you been pregnant and kept it a secret?’’ she had demanded furiously, tearing at her hair.

Had Mother spared her a moment’s breadth, she may have disclosed her ordeal but the woman given to hysterics had charged at her like an angry bull throwing blows carelessly. The beating had numbed her and she had remained in that state till her child was born.

 

An owl hooted in the distance, its eerie notes deepening Adaora’s melancholy for unexpectedly, the grief she had caged these six years overwhelmed her as the memories unfolded. If an elder were to have been present, he would have left his summons and hurried home for the sound of the owl in the day was an omen of bad tidings. But the young woman was completely alone with nature and instantly, she sank to her knees bending forward till the side of her face was pressed to the dank soil.  Then as though a faucet had been turned on from within her, she closed her eyes and bathed the earth with her tears, her huffed breathing fanning tiny leaves that scattered about the place like the sorrow in her heart which now spread out like leaves in a storm telling her story; of the ugly deeds that had been done to her within the confines of a beautiful house. Her sobs mingled with the chirping of a random bird and she breathed in the wet humus till it stuck in her nostrils and tasted in her mouth yet even she was oblivious to her base state. Around her nature absorbed the lamentations of her sore heart listening without prejudice as she recounted the loss of her maiden virtue in the forced embrace of a man whom she had called Father. She had transited into womanhood, her first encounter of the rapturous bliss of intercourse leaving a bitter taste in her senses.

How would she know that a woman’s first time, performed with affectionate considerations was sweeter than honey? You know the feeling you get as a woman in the aftermath, when you press your thighs together seconds later, your swollen skin still tender and tingling sweetly within. How your calm breaths would suddenly quicken when you remember the soothing words and gentle embrace of the loving hands that revealed to you the sweetness of your own body?

Adaora had wept in the aftermath, and she had been terrified because she could tell no one. You don’t go about telling people you had been raped by a sick sexagenarian during your bridal visit, while his wife administered to a woman in Labour. They would say you were crazy that is if they believed you in the first place so you bear the hurting memories alone; you are stuck with it the way your breasts are stuck to your chest.

Today’s weeping had been cathartic and as the last vestige of sorrow was stripped off her, she groped till she gripped a plant frantically by its stalk, pulling it free of its roots, scattering sand in her face, and she cursed him, his son in the European University and his entire household; then she stood because the earth now felt hot beneath her cheek and the sun was scorching her back.

 

 The herbs were of little use as the lifeless form of the frail child had been scrubbed clean and laid out on the threadbare mat in the living room when she returned; and relatives crammed the square parlour grieving over the death of a little girl who had been afflicted by bad witchcraft (Africans are highly superstitious).

“I only went to get onubi and nchanwu leaves “. She stated calmly to no one in particular, moving forward till she lifted the corpse and set it to her bosom, her eyes dry as a river bed in drought.

They would whisper, that she was heartless; she had neither shed a tear nor pitched a wail for her loss and perhaps they were right. A part of her heart had died six years ago and tonight as she performed the cleansing rites that would free the spirit of her little girl; she felt the other half die as well. Mother had offered her a shoulder to weep during the burial that morning. But she had calmly pulled away leaving her Family gaping at her as she walked off.

 

When the last bits of her child’s possessions had been licked off by the blazing fire, she turned slowly to stare at the match box house lit up by the moon, observing its tattered roofing and unpainted walls. And for once, she didn’t hate the sight of it.  As she walked back into the house, she collided with her sister who rushed past towards the outside pit latrine. Concerned, she went after the girl, stopping abruptly when she heard the unmistakable gruff sounds of a young woman retching.