She woke up with a start, and quickly made the sign of the cross. Her
face was creased with worry as she recounted the nightmare. In the dream
she and most of the villagers were gathered in the village square in
deep mourning. ‘Tufiakwa’ she said to no one in particular, clicking her
fingers she made a circular motion over her head with her right hand.
She increased the flame of the kerosene lamp and went to check on her
grandma. It was still dark and the only sounds were of crickets, snores,
and night creatures. As she opened the door quietly to avoid the noisy
groans from its hinges, the hoot of an owl rang out. The sound was so
startling, and she jumped back in fear, evidenced by the ‘akpata oyi’ on
her skin. Her grandma hearing the sound first reached for her Rosary
under her pillow, and shouted out that all the wandering spirits return
to their abode. Her granddaughter rushed into her room visibly shaken.
Grandma held her in her arms in a bid to calm her. They all knew the
sight and sound of the owl was a bad omen. The younger one tried to find
words to narrate her dream to the older, but the older opted for prayer
which they did. Sleep eluded them for the rest of the night.
If the
coming of dawn did not driver away the fears of the night completely,
the feeling of sadness and loss hung over them like a cloud. The clouds
were overcast enforcing the feeling of gloom in those who had slept
badly. She found to her dismay that the goats had raided the kitchen and
eaten not only the yams but the palm fronds she kept aside for the Palm
Sunday of today. In a bid to drive the animals out she rushed at them,
and inadvertently struck her right leg against a stone. The pain stopped
her in her tracks and as she nursed the hurt toe she realised it was
another omen. Feeling defeated, as the goats bleated in derision, she
set off for the stream hoping the morning exercise would improve things.
She was met by her friends who seemed subdued one asked her if she
heard the sound of wailing the previous night. Though she did not she
explained her experience. They all felt something was wrong, and walked
in silence, trying to balance their filled pots, and navigate the path
slippery from the morning dew. Despite her best efforts, she lost her
balance when an ‘Udele’ flew past them. Her pot slipped from her head
and smashed to smithereens. She was a nervous wreck at that point and
broke into tears as her friends tried to console her. Something was
really wrong, but what?
As the bell for morning Mass tolled she could
not help comparing in the bell tolling for the death of someone. The
rain had become a downpour, and the villagers employed cocoyam leaves as
umbrellas. There would be no Palm Sunday procession, the skies were
weeping, for whom? The general mood was somber. When ‘Fada’ faced the
congregation , it was obvious he had been crying, at that point people
began to whisper, she began to shake, and clutched her Grandma’s wrapper
for comfort. ‘Umu-nnem na Christi’, he began, ‘it is a sad moment for
us as I have to announce the death of our Father, our Brother, our
Voice’… The suspense was broken with the next words, ‘Nna anyi Chinua
Achebe is dead’. At that moment time stopped, there was silence, and
then a baby wailed, and as though on cue, others followed. Tears rolled
down my cheeks, as the Okonkwos shook their heads and gritted their
teeth, they were young men not expected to cry. The Ezinmmas wailed
openly, after all they were expressive young women. The Unokas struck
their walking sticks on the ground as though demanding an answer, they
were old and had a right to know. The Ikemefunas looked askance, who
would inspire them. The village at that moment realised they had lost He
who told their story, our story beautifully and without fear. He who
portrayed us as good people, he who pierced the mists of time, and gave
us our heritage, told us to find out who we were, who we are, and who we
can be. I cried but not incosolabely because there is hope, as He lives
in his books, and in our hearts. We can still tell the African story,
as he inspired us to. I tried doing so immediately I got home, but my
pencil broke, and my pen would not flow. For now we mourn the
Storyteller per excellence, the man of integrity. Adieu Pa Chinua, laa
n’udo. Ka Chineke Nnna nye ya ezumike, gbaa kwa ezi n’ulo ya na ndi enyi
ya ume.
Story by Dr Odocha, S O (An upcoming Novelist and Author)
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