Girls at War

Akueke lay on her sick-bed on one side of the wall of enmity that had suddenly risen between her and her bro

thers. She heard their muttering with fear. They had not yet told her what must be done, but she knew. She wanted to ask them to take her to their mother’s father in Ezi but so great was the enmity that had so strangely come between them that her pride forbade her to speak. Let them dare. Last night Ofodile who was the eldest had wanted to speak but had only stood and looked at her with tears in his eyes. Who was he crying for? Let him go and eat shit.

In the fitful half-sleep that later visited her Akueke was far away in her grandfather’s compound in Ezi without even the memory of her sickness. She was once again the village beauty.

Akueke had been her mother’s youngest child and only daughter. There were six brothers and their father had died when she was still a little girl. But he had been a man of substance so that even after his death his family did not know real want, especially as some of his sons already planted their own farms.

Several times every year Akueke’s mother took her children to visit her own kinsmen in Ezi, a whole day’s journey from Umuofia at the younger children’s pace. Sometimes Akueke rode on her mother’s back, sometimes she walked. When the sun came up her mother broke a little cassava twig from the roadside farm to protect her head.

Akueke looked forward to these visits to her mother’s father, a giant of a man with white hair and beard. Sometimes the old man wore his beard as a rope-like plait ending in a fine point from which palm-wine dripped to the ground when he drank. This never ceased to amuse Akueke. The old man knew it and improved the situation for her by gnashing his teeth between gulps of wine.

He was very fond of his granddaughter who, they said, was the image of his own mother. He rarely called Akueke by her name: it was always Mother. She was in fact the older woman returned in the cycle of life. During the visits to Ezi, Akueke knew she could get away with anything; her grandfather forbade anyone to rebuke her.

The voices beyond the wall grew louder. Perhaps neighbours were remonstrating with her brothers. So they all knew now. Let them all eat shit. If she could get up she would chase them all out with the old broom lying near her bed. She wished her mother were alive. This would not have happened to her.

Akueke’s mother had died two years ago and was taken to Ezi to be buried with her own people. The old man who had seen many sorrows in his life asked, “Why do they take my children and leave me?” But some days later he told people who came to console him, “We are God’s chickens. Sometimes He chooses a young chicken to eat and sometimes He chooses an old one.” Akueke remembered these scenes vividly and for once came near to crying. What would the old man do when he heard of her abominable death?

Akueke’s age-grade brought out their first public dance in the dry season that followed her mother’s death. Akueke created a sensation by her dancing, and her suitors increased tenfold. From one market to another some man brought palm-wine to her brothers. But Akueke rejected them all. Her brothers began to be worried. They all loved their only sister, and especially since their mother’s death, they seemed to vie with one another in seeking her happiness.

And now they were worried because she was throwing away chances of a good marriage. Her eldest brother, Ofodile, told her as sternly as he could that proud girls who refused every suitor often came to grief, like Onwuero in the story, who rejected every man but in the end ran after three fishes which had taken the form of handsome young men in order to destroy her.

Akueke did not listen. And now her protective spirit despairing of her had taken a hand in the matter and she was stricken with this disease. At first people pretended not to notice the swelling stomach.

Medicine-men were brought in from far and wide to minister to her. But their herbs and roots had no effect. An afa oracle sent Akueke’s brothers in search of a certain palm-tree smothered by a climbing vine. “When you see it,” he said to them, “take a matchete and cut away the strangling climber. The spirits which have bound your sister will then release her.” The brothers searched Umuofia and the neighbouring villages for three days before they saw such a palm-tree and cut it loose. But their sister was not released; rather she got worse.

At last they took counsel together and decided with heavy hearts that Akueke had been stricken with the swelling disease which was an abomination to the land. Akueke knew the purpose of her brothers’ consultation. As soon as the eldest set foot in her sickroom she began to scream at him, and he fled. This went on for a whole day, and there was a real danger that she might die in the house and bring down the anger of Ani on the whole family, if not the entire village. Neighbours came in and warned the brothers of the grave danger to which they were exposing the nine villages of Umuofia.

In the evening they carried her into the bad bush. They had constructed a temporary shelter and a rough bed for her. She was now silent from exhaustion and hate and they left her and went away.

In the morning three of the brothers went again to the bush to see whether she was still alive. To their great shock the shelter was empty. They ran all the way back to report to the others, and they all returned and began a search of the bush. There was no sign of their sister. Obviously she had been eaten by wild animals, which sometimes happened in such cases.

Two or three moons passed and their grandfather sent a messenger to Umuofia to ascertain whether it was true that Akueke was dead. The brothers said “Yes” and the messenger returned to Ezi. A week or two later the old man sent another message commanding all the brothers to come to see him. He was waiting in his obi when his grandchildren arrived. After the formalitites of welcome muted by thoughts of their recent loss he asked them where their sister was. The eldest told him the story of Akueke’s death. The old man listened to the end with his head supported on the palm of his right hand.

“So Akueke is dead,” he said, half question, half statement. “And why did you not send a message to me?” There was silence, then the eldest said they had wanted to complete all the purification rites. The old man gnashed his teeth, and then rose painfully three-quarters erect and tottered towards his sleeping-room, moved back the carved door and the ghost of Akueke stood before them, unsmiling and implacable. Everyone sprang to their feet and one or two were already outside.

“Come back,” said the old man with a sad smile. “Do you know who this young woman is? I want an answer. You Ofodile, you are the eldest, I want you to answer. Who is this?”

“She is our sister Akueke.”

“Your sister Akueke? But you have just told me that she died of the swelling disease. How could she die and then be here?” Silence. “If you don’t know what the swelling disease is why did you not ask those who do?”

“We consulted medicine-men throughout Umuofia and Abame.”

“Why did you not bring her here to me?” Silence.

The old man then said in very few words that he had called them together to tell them from that day Akueke was to become his daughter and her name would become Matefi. She was no longer a daughter of Umuofia but of Ezi. They stared before them in silence.

“When she marries,” the old man concluded, “her bride-price will be mine not yours. As for your purification rites you may carry on because Akueke is truly dead in Umuofia.”

Without even a word of greeting to her brothers Matefi went back to the room.

Chike’s School Days

Sarah’s last child was a boy, and his birth brought great joy to the house of his father, Amos. The child received three names at his baptism—John, Chike, Obiajulu. The last name means “the mind at last is at rest.” Anyone hearing this name knew at once that its owner was either an only child or an only son. Chike was an only son. His parents had had five daughters before him.

Like his sisters Chike was brought up “in the ways of the white man,” which meant the opposite of traditional. Amos had many years before bought a tiny bell with which he summoned his family to prayers and hymn-singing first thing in the morning and last thing at night. This was one of the ways of the white man. Sarah taught her children not to e

at in their neighbours’ houses because “they offered their food to idols.” And thus she set herself against the age-old custom which regarded children as the common responsibility of all so that, no matter what the relationship between parents, their children played together and shared their food.