Agaracha
Onyinyechi Favour
Mama slapped my hand away from the pile of new yams before my fingers could grab one.
“Mma, do you want Ala to strike this house?” she snapped. “Biko, these are for tomorrow.”
Nneka laughed so hard, she nearly dropped the firewood she held. She was about to boil the last of the old yams, and I already knew our night meal would be ji na mmanu nri.
Iri Ji Ohuru was the next day. Nneka and I had rehearsed our dance steps for weeks, and I could barely wait for our final rehearsal.
I ran out to peer into the obi where the council of elders held sway. Papa had forbidden me from going to the obi whenever he was there, discussing with the elders.
“Little ears do not belong in elders’ matters,” he would say.
But it did nothing to dissuade me. It only fueled my curiosity.
This time, the meeting was already over. Only Papa and Ichie Okoro remained under the ukwa tree, Papa’s oforesting beside him. Ichie Okoro’s laughter rang through the compound, and Papa was smiling too. I wondered what was so funny.
Evenings were often like this. The two men held courts under the tree, speaking in riddles about yams, rainfall, and the stubbornness of goats.
Ichie Okoro didn’t stay for long as he usually did. He left too soon and so I had no choice but to go back to the kitchen.
Nneka was done cooking, so I helped in clearing the yam peels. Soon, we were outside singing and rehearsing our dance steps for Iri Ji Ohuru again. I had almost perfected my steps.
Nneka danced like her feet had never touched the earth. Her slim waist twisted from left to right while her hips and feet moved in perfect rhythm, each step divine. Everyone in Eyinna knew her for it, and it was my greatest pride to be identified as Nwanne Nneka.
And suddenly, we froze and shared a knowing look when we heard the cry of Onye-Ji-Ala from afar. He was a shouting distance from our shed, his white wrapper glowing in the last rays of the dying sun. I slunk behind a wall extending from a corner of the house, watching as he approached the ukwa tree.
He chanted words I could not understand as his carved staff struck the earth with each step. Cowries rattled against feathers and bones tied to it. His body twitched violently, his head jerking from side to side. Sacred patterns of nzu marked his bare chest, and brass armbands coiled around his arms like snakes.
“Ichie Njoku, puta!” he called.
Papa stepped outside, his brow knotted in confusion. “What message does Ala bring this night?” he asked.
Onye-Ji-Ala lifted his face to the sky. “I have communed with the spirits of our fathers,” he said. “They say this year’s festival will be louder than thunder. Ala is dressed in the red of her own people.”
Papa snorted.
Onye-Ji-Ala turned sharply.
“Ask your friend Ichie Okoro where he goes at night. Ask him who brings strange cowries to his door. He who offends the earth must answer to her. The earth never forgets.”
Papa’s lips parted, but no words came.
Onye-Ji-Ala walked away, striking the earth with his staff as he did.
*
I was not thinking when I bounded toward Ichie Okoro’s compound. My sister often called me Agarachabecause I was always wandering.
I stopped outside and hid behind the mud wall. Then I saw them.
Two ndi ocha stood beside Ichie Okoro, their skin pale like nzu. I had never seen men like them before.
One of them spoke, but his words twisted strangely in the air, too fast for me to follow.
What was Ichie Okoro doing with ndi ocha? I thought, moving closer.
My foot rammed against a clay pot. It fell and shattered.
“Onye?” Ichie Okoro yelled.
I ran without looking back.
I clutched my thumping chest as I got home, panting.
Truly, my chi had walked beside me that night.
Mama was nowhere outside. Only Nneka remained by the fire, keeping herself warm beneath the moonlight.
“Agaracha, ebee ka i si abia?” she asked.
I shook my head quickly, hoping she wouldn’t pester me with more questions.
She hissed and went inside.
Only then did I learn to breathe properly.
*
We ate ji na mmanu nri that night, and Nneka and I fantasized about the next day.
I soon forgot about what I had seen. Nneka’s excitement was infectious.
We talked until our voices grew hollow, and the fire burned low.
*
The day finally arrived.
Okpara Eyinna stepped forward to lead the thanksgiving and the Iwa Ji.
Eyinna was alive. The scent of roasted yam and smoke hung in the air as laughter rippled through out the village.
Maidens danced in circles, their waist beads jingling to the rhythm of the ogene. Children raced barefoot through the sand, their laughter rising above the drums.
Nneka and I danced until a sudden crack of gunfire tore through the celebration.
Shrieks swallowed the drums. People scattered in all directions, colliding as they ran. Children wailed, calling out to their mothers.
We ran. Nneka’s hand wrapped tightly around mine, her laughter still ringing in my ears from seconds earlier. Then her grip jerked violently. She stumbled.
I looked back. She lay lifeless on the ground, blood gushing from her chest like palm wine from a broken calabash, soaking the new wrapper we had begged Mama to let us wear.
“Nneka!” I screamed.
Out of nowhere, my mother yanked my arm and dragged me toward the old yam barn behind Okpara Eyinna’s compound.
“Stay here! Don’t come out!” she warned. She pushed me inside, muttering prayers as she ran back toward the chaos before I could beg her to stay.
I stood among the yams, shivering, my sister’s lifeless body burning in my mind.
I climbed onto a creaky stool and peeped outside. I saw him, smiling and shaking hands with ndi ocha.
I recognized one of the white men from the previous night, in Ichie Okoro’s compound. I remembered him rambling away in that strange, twisted language that pricked my eardrums.
Ichie Okoro was smiling now. The man Papa called brother was smiling while Eyinna burned.
My stomach tightened with fear as Papa charged towards him, wielding his ofo like a weapon.
I wanted to scream, to beg him to stop, but something clogged the back of my throat, churning up the words.
My father fell. His blood spilled onto the ground beside his ofo. I screamed and coughed.
Another gunshot rang out near the barn. I jumped down from the stool and curled into the corner, trembling and covering my mouth.
My hands clamped over my ears, but the screams outside seeped through the cracks of the barn.
I recalled Onye-Ji-Ala’s words: “Ala is dressed in the red of her own people.” Tears blurred my eyes. I had seen too much horror for one day. Mama could be dead too.
Suddenly, something touched my shoulders.
I spun around, shivering. An onye ocha stood behind me. He bent slightly, the way adults did when speaking to frightened children, and I froze sniffing back tears. He muttered words I could not understand before slowly stretching out his hands to me.
My mind screamed for me to run, but I froze as my hand moved forward and took his hand.
My legs trembled as I rushed out of the barn. Smoke curled into the sky. The drums that had once filled Eyinna with joy, now lay silent beneath the screaming.
And I found Mama strewn beside the wall, her wrapper drenched in blood, her eyes stretched open, her tongue lolling out.
Something inside me shattered.
I had slept in those arms more times than I could count. Now they lay open, reaching for nothing.
Before I could run to her, rough hands seized me. Cold chains clamped around my wrists, heavy and biting against my skin as I was dragged toward the others they spared.
My eyes roved frantically through the crowd until I saw Onye-Ji-Ala among them, chains hanging from his wrists like mockery. The same man who spoke with the spirit of our fathers now stood bound like a common thief.
Was Ala so angry that she could not even save her own servant?
The chains chafed my ankles and wrists as we lumbered out of Eyinna, as the people wailed and beat their chests. Behind us, smoke rose above the village like a taunt, while the ukwa tree stood silently in the distance, watching everything.