Rebirth

Dad cautioned that I stay still, so that the cuts could be precise, just well below the surface of my skin but also not deep enough to hit an artery. I could never summon the courage for needle pricks, let alone an inflicted cut. But I knew I had to be still. I counted to 5 in my head. By the time I reached the number 5, the first cut hit and I flinched slightly. Dad whispered, Kosi be still, a few more and we will be done and I started my count again. I had counted to 50. Each count of 5 meant one cut. By 50 I had received 10 cuts. 5 on either sides of my back. Next was the burning sensation that followed. From the concoction he applied directly into the cuts. I could hear him mumble some inaudible words, almost like an incantation; then it was over, I was now ready for my trip to the village.

Journeying to the Far Eastern part of Nigeria to bury Nne Ukwu (loosely translated to mean “Grand Mother”) our precious Grandmother, who I barely recall meeting, was supposed to reconnect us to our roots. Dad said the cuts were supposed to ward off evil attacks. He said not everyone was excited that we lived in the city, in a house he owned, made from blocks and cements; with internal stairs and terracotta roof tiles; with rooms fitted with bathrooms. He said not everyone was excited that we spoke English. Infact, he had mentioned Uncle Afam was livid that we spoke little or no Igbo. Uncle Afam had teased us on his last visit to the city saying that if there ever was a civil war in Nigeria and the only way we could stay alive was by speaking our native language, that we’d all be dead in a minute. I didn’t find his statement amusing, I was disgusted. It wasn’t essentially my choice not to speak Igbo, it was fate! And it was the same fate of Nne Ukwu’s passing, which was taking me down this narrow part, to a village I had never been. One we had to reach by crossing rivers and driving through the thick of the forests.

Nne Ukwu’s burial was a celebration. They say she lived an exemplary life, one filled with hard work, giving and nurturing for both her family and people within the village, including strangers. She was described as a happy and content woman, even after her first husband had died tragically from a snake bite while she was pregnant with Uncle Afam. She had two more marriages after that. And somehow, a certain level of tragedy followed suit for all her husbands. By the time she was 30, with 7 kids and at her third burial, the Chief priests concluded that she had a “Spirit husband”. Her spirit husband resented that she was getting married in the flesh, so he made sure they were only alive to execute the role of procreation, after which it was his duty to take them to the land beyond. Nne Ukwu had to go through some cleansing. It required 7 nights deep in the woods, 7 chickens, the intestine of a turtle and the finger nails of a lion. When a list is presented by the Chief priest, a monetary value is usually included, to allow for the purchase of the impossible, as required by the gods. So after the 7^th night, Nne Ukwu was free of her spirit husband, and I guess free of wanting to start over. She already had 7 mouths to feed. The husband materials in the village weren’t exactly industrious, so she was done re-marrying. She committed her life to raising Uncle Afam, Dad and their remaining 5 sisters, until they were old enough to choose their paths in life.

There were so many beautiful stories told at Nne Ukwu’s celebration of life. I probably got to know a lot more about her from the eulogies. She did have a big heart, she never allowed her traditional upbringing stop her from letting her children explore the world. Even with her basic grade 1 education, she believed much wealth could be created with the right exposure. It’s a little wonder that with Dad’s wide studies both home and abroad, he still believed in the way of the gods. Or I guess, for the sake of Nne Ukwu, still practised the ways of the gods. Dad said too many people despised the fact that he made it out of Akonam and built a life for himself. One that did not involve farming, fishing or fetching water from the streams and listening to tales by sundown under the mango tree in the village square.

We weren’t exactly religious Church goers, but we did attend Mass from time-to-time because Mum insisted. I had just recently completed the sacrament of first Holy Communion. Which meant that every time we were in church I had to receive communion, as a devout and practicing Catholic. On one of the Sunday’s right after I had returned for the summer holidays, I did not make Communion. Mum had thrown me a stern look. I knew I wasn’t going to have the last of it. So I prepared my rebuttal. As soon as we were back at home she questioned my not taking communion. And I said I wasn’t comfortable going to confess my sins to a priest. But I had already shot myself in the foot. What do you mean by you are not comfortable confessing to a priest she yelled? Well, I heard we could ask him directly, I retorted. Mum was gobsmacked. Who and where are you getting these insane insights from she asked? I responded that I had read a few scriptures. It wasn’t a lie, I guess I was done with been dependent on another for my salvation.

Right after we returned from Nne Ukwu’s burial, Dad fell ill. It started with gradual swellings on his feet, until it progressed all the way to his hips. The doctors diagnosed a possible kidney related ailment at first, but with each visit to the doctors the prognosis kept changing. Uncle Afam visited and suggested he take Dad to the village. I overheard him whispering to Mum that the chief priest could help. But Mum hesitated. We were already solidifying our faith in the church. How then could we seek divination from the gods? Uncle Afam insisted. He said the longer we delayed the worse it could get. So Mum agreed. They told us that Dad was being transferred to another specialist hospital in the East. I guess Mum felt that was a better excuse. She wasn’t yet done dealing with my rebelling against the doctrines of the Catholic Church, yet alone having to explain the workings of the gods. I had wondered why Dad didn’t get the cuts he gave us before we left for Nne Ukwu’s burial. He did say it was supposed to ward off evil attacks…

It had taken about a month, but Dad made it back hale and hearty. Uncle Afam said the Chief priest sucked out some poison, orchestrated to harm Dad at Nne Ukwu’s burial. We were not sure who had placed this poison, but that signified the era of almost never returning to Akonam. Dad pretty much stopped going to church after that. I guess it was more from a conflict of interest. Not exactly of fate really, but of the healing! Too much rituals and sacrifices had been done to get him to a healthy state.

Graduating from the University spelled independence. This meant I could go anywhere I wanted, well the National Youth Service Corps made sure of that. I had overheard a few of my friends say they would “work” (by means of influence or money) their postings to ensure they remained in the city. But I had lived in the city all my life and it seemed to be the only place I knew. I was going to leave my posting to fate and go wherever it led me. It was my time to find my own identity. One that expressed who I was. I had pretty much lived a very sheltered life and lived a routine. My parents were providers and this also meant they were a tad bit overprotective. I could never visit any friends, Dad always said I could invite them over. I guess he still lived in fear that the world was just a cruel wicked place, where people didn’t have your good interests at heart, where arrows and poisons could be shot at you, where bad things happened to good people. But it was time for me to live and discover my own path. I had been told so many things by so many people and lived under the shadows for far too long. But I guess it was time for a change.

Getting posted to Enugu was a thrill at first. I had only ever been to the eastern parts of Nigeria twice in my entire 21 years. The first time for Uncle Afam’s wedding which was actually my first trip as a child. I had fond memories of our very first pit stop at Ore, where Dad bought the crunchiest groundnuts I had ever eaten with humongous bright yellow bananas. The bananas were not the same as those Mum usually got from the market in Lagos. My second time was as a teenager going for Nne Ukwu’s burial.

Enugu was different. It had plenty red soil, bumpy untarred roads, busy markets and food! The first time I had Okpa felt like a revelation! How something so yellow could hold such unexplained satisfaction beats me. But I fell in love at first taste. I was still building my love for Abacha. I had tried it at Uncle Afam’s wedding but was put off by the snappy bitter taste that hit me. Mum said the bitter taste was from the Utazi leaf but that it would grow on me. Well, it never really did.

The 3 weeks in NYSC camp was such a drag. I wanted it to be over so we could get into the real world, where all my dreams would come true. I was posted to the State Secondary School where I was to teach English literature to students some of whom where my age, obnoxious and downright disrespectful. We had heard stories from the previous NYSC members who had just passed out getting beat up by students in most of these schools. I met him at the induction briefing for all the corps members posted to the State Secondary School. He had a rather calm demeanour, 6ft or so tall, the perfect chiselled chin and the rosiest pink lips I had seen on a man. And when he spoke, it felt like he was speaking from a well, deep within his stomach. His speech was polished, yet authoritative. A fast relief from the multitude of accents I had been exposed to since getting posted to Enugu. I found out he was to be teaching the students Mathematics and somehow by some stroke of luck, we were assigned to the same living quarters designated for corps members within the school premises.

By the first week, we had gradually become close. He liked that we had similarities. Same world views, adventurous spirits and almost similar backgrounds. Well, not as rosy as the one I had, but one good enough to afford him access to his basic necessities of life; food, clothing and good education. I liked that he was intelligent and a go-getter. For much of my University days I was pretty much a recluse. It was all work and no play and the fact that I was also a tad bit shy, didn’t help my social life.

Idara loved God. He had a deep seated understanding of the word which for me had always been a conflict. I was tired of the routine that was Mass and the empty feeling I got after every church service. So Idara promised to take me on an exploratory journey of the doctrine. I attended Service with him at one of the Pentecostal churches closest to our station and although it felt like we were in service for eternity, something moved in my soul. I didn’t know most of the songs as I had been used to mainly hymns, but the songs held a lot of depth. Suddenly I felt a twinge in my eyes and the tears started to flow. I could not control myself. It felt like an awakening. For the rest of the sermon I was enraptured, lost in deep conflicting thoughts of my past experiences. One of seeking protection from the gods, and the other of seeking penance from a Priest. Was this what it meant to be reborn?

By the time I visited home again it was to move some of my belongings. I had gotten a job in the Federal Capital Territory post NYSC, at one of the NGOs as a Marketing Assistant. Idara had also secured a job with one of the commercial banks and we were on a roller-coaster ride. I had never felt this way about anyone in my entire life. Dad had done some spring cleaning at the house. The little chest he had tucked away in his study was no longer there. Mum said he had burnt everything. He was now attending Mass more often and even participating in some of the Groups in Church. I was somewhat relieved as I had never really understood the workings of the gods as it seemed they always needed to draw blood before they could protect or heal and I was still exploring this new feeling. One that signified a rebirth!