Onyema was the dullest boy in the clan. His actions; talking, walking, eating, and basically everything were done sluggishly. Most of his days he spent thinking of the yam in his father's barn. The sun peeped to the sky. Onyema ducked out his little mud hut and his back grazed the thatch. His other brothers sat around father's hut and as they noticed movement towards his end, they looked at him with sneer and scorn pasted on their faces. They probably cursed the day he was born, but Onyema was too distant to have heard anything. He slowly stretched his back but his bones didn't crack.
He craned to the mural he was designing on the wall of his hut. Apart from thinking of his father's yam, he spent the rest of his days drawing abstract art with his precious stone which his father gave him—which was, in fact, chalk from the shrine. He knew that because he stole the same type from the shrine when his father tugged him there for consultation and prayers for fear that he was abnormal.
The flowers Onyema drew had thorns and the faces of the gods he mimicked, had no ears or mouth.
He sat down to complete his painting of yesterday—a faceless pregnant woman standing on boney legs. Ojiri, his eldest brother, who went in search of greener pastures said he had a brilliant mind. Onyema would smile shyly, wanting his brother to praise him more. Since his brother left he had no one to appreciate him or give him roasted yam and oil for a work well done.
He broke part of the chalk and crushed it in a little bowl till it took the form of powder. Then he began to spit in it. He did so slowly, but no one was close to watch it ooze through his lips. With his index, he mixed it into a paste then dipped the feather he plucked from the rear of a black cock into the ink and continued his painting. But before he did, he took a step back and admired his work. From the white astral sphere shaded with charcoal. To the thorned rope that girded hut. To Something that looked like a tuber of yam, probably a look-alike, because it didn't quite look like yam. To the faceless gods and the boney pregnant woman.
It was an abstract piece of mural that was quantum leaped for a yesteryear boy Like Onyema. His relatives and kindred were too primate to recognize. This was a time when men girded goat-skin leather around their waist and the women walked bare-chested. The young, adolescent, old and even the married, their skin marked with charcoal that was renewed every two days. But Onyema's body was free from these markings. Things like that needed a companion or member who was willing to spend their moonlight gathering drawing lines on one's body with charcoal. Onyema had no one like that. No one spared him a second thought.
Apart from his prodigal brother, who his father had disowned, kneeling in the middle of the compound, he pined his head to the ground and called his name three times. "Ojiri, Ojiri, Ojiri" he raised his head and looked at the crescent moon. His children stood by their Hut, watching. He continued: "Under the same moon that bore witness at birth, I cast you out of the sphere of my family. Since you have decided to live like an osu–outcast–You are no longer my son."
So apart from his disowned brother who was in search of greener pastures, the only other person that tried occasionally to paint Onyema's body died two days ago and she died pregnant. Her name was Ebere. The daughter of Ogechi, his father's fourth wife.
That was why his brothers were sitting around his father's Hut. He gazed at them for a while before turning back to his hut. They all had their head craned down except Dabiri, the first son of Nkechi, his father's first wife. For a while, he thought Dabiri would point to him and say "Onyema killed Ebere!" But for the seconds their gaze locked until now he dipped his feather in the white paste, the compound was quiet. It was only broken by a bleating goat.
Dabiri probably would have done so if Ebere didn't die of iba-The illness that steals the appetite and rockets the body temperature. One has to be sick of it and cured to be able to grasp its true feeling.
Onyema has never been sick throughout his fifteen years of consciousness. At his birth, his father had journeyed into the bushes to pluck some leaves for medicine for his new infant. There he met his friend, Dike, a bold hunter. His bow hung on his shoulder and his popular poisoned arrow dangling on his hand.
"My friend I knew you would come here," said Dike, "Adaku's cry filled the night. Was it a boy or girl." Dike's heart hooked awaiting the answer.
"Boy,"
Dike watered down. Sons are better. "On my way to hunt, I thought of plucking the required leaves for the medicine, but I have walked far and wide but the Otutu leaf don't seem to have sprouted on any root or might have been taken by others." The latter was true because his father would later learn that Forty other children were born that day.
"Did you enter the evil forest?"
"The evil forest?!" dike asked stretching every syllabus. "You must be mad!"
"Ojiaku, the old man living top the hill said so many men did it in his time."
Dike craned his head thoughtfully. The story was popular within the clan. "Do you think The Great Korodo will accompany us to the evil forest?"
"The old man said you have to take a good reason and four white hens..." his father said. "the scarcity of the Otutu is a good reason. We can grab the white hens walking around the bush behind my compound."
Dike accepted. "Okoro I will help you," Dike told His father as they scurried back to the compound to grab the white hens. "I will help you," he continued "But don't you think something is not in place? for our ancestors called this a bad luck. The Otutu leave getting scares was like the water drying from the sea. It is rare and lethal."
His father didn't respond to Dike. He simply tugged at his goatee nodding thoughtfully.
They arrived at The Great Korodo—a circular mud Hut bordered by the forest. They had cut down branches, passed through a thin path filled with snakes and monkeys to get there. They had even walked passed the Oracle python. It was believed that the python gave good luck to pregnant women. These women would dance, totally naked in the confines of their room, singing and chanting songs to invite the python to their bed. The women who spoke of it said they felt the chill of the snake moving behind them. It was an abomination for a woman to lay eyes on it during such a moment. So the women would shut their eyes once they felt its presence until it was no more. At once, they would stand up and dance in appreciation to the Oracle. Some decades ago, a woman named Alice had her eyes taken from her by the spirit because she gazed at the snake when it was leaving.
The python didn't visit Onyema's mother throughout her months of pregnancy for him. That was when Okoro, his father made his first visit to The Great Korodo.
This time he has come not just for consulting, but for assistance.
The old man called Okochi sat with his back to his unmistakably visitors. He knew they were coming. He heard their thoughts through the rustling trees and perceived their sweat in the breeze.
"Okoro, son of Ikenga, and Dike, son of Ikemefula, what brings you to my house?" the unclad old man asked with his back to them.
"We have come to ask for your assistance." said Dike.
The old priest nodded. "The ant is always on a mission." he shook his head, and with effort, he whirled to face the men. "The python never visited your wife!" he pointed to Okoro and continued, "Now you ask The Great Korodo to escort you into the evil forest! Tufia!" he spat out, then motioned to pick a white chalk from an antic bowl tied with red ribbon. It was next to the carcass of a chicken. He used the chalk to draw spherical lines on the ground and the men watched silently.
After a minute or so he said, "The gods are not speaking to me!" his tone was furious and his eyes, red. The circular outline drawn around his eyes with white chalk, blended in.
The unclad Old man chased them away. "leave!" he said, "your child is cursed! Leave!"
The men scurried out the little hut. The vicinity reeked of death. And the skeletons of chickens, goats, and other animals Okoro couldn't recognize littered around the shrine. As they paced, the tracks got narrow and narrow, until there was no more tracks. Okoro had to cut their way through the forest with his machete.
He thanked Dike who promised to be back when the sun slept.
Okoro then ducked into Adaku's hut and it smelt of sweat and blood. The last time he knocked on her door, with his desires evident on him, Adaku was asleep. Without hesitation, he joined her on her bamboo bed and began to massage her breast. As soon as he made to fit his lips around her nipple that had hardened in response to the cold breeze, she woke and told him she was tired and wasn't feeling too well.
The next morning, his first wife came with a horn full of wine and knelt before his bed and said "You have done right by your father, by your family and yourself." she stretched the horn to him. Okoro brows flew up, Which of his wife was pregnant?
He drank the wine at once in eager anticipation.
"Adaku carries your child." she mouthed. A man was meant to read his wife's name through the lips. So at the market square, when men gossip about her he can detect at once.
Okoro was happy. He called his friends and killed a goat for a moonlight celebration—Where their wives marked their bodies with charcoal while they ate and drank wine from tusks and horns.
This happiness began to deplete. Six months later there was no testimony from Adaku's lips that the python visited. In the seventh month, Okoro called her into his hut. "Have the python paid you a visit?"
Adaku shook her head. That was when he first made up his mind to go to The Great Korodo to lay a complain. Okochi, the old korodo priest told him "It's alright. She won't be the first. Go home Okoro, son of Ikenga."
The child was born and Okoro feared that his child would die. There were no leaves for his medicine and the python didn't visit. Four days past, seven, and the next four years past. The child didn't die neither was he ever ill.
If Onyema had ever been ill, he would have known how Ebere felt before she died. All he knew was that she died of the sickness that steals appetite and rockets the temperature.
He gazed at the faceless pregnant woman standing on boney legs he was drawing, took a deep breath before dipping the feather into the bowl. Tears clouded his eyes but it didn't drop.
He was distracted by the distant rattling that heralded the entrance of Okochi; The Great Korodo priest. Okochi held a wooden staff that was said to be the mind of the gods. Different patterns were carved onto the staff—these patterns were called veins—and it was through this veins that the powers of Korodo flowed into the priest. It was the brass balls on the staff that rattled as he paced. The ones around his ankle and wrist weren't loud enough to be heard from the distance.
Onyema tilted to the direction the rattling came from, so did his brothers.
The large compound was fenced with red mud and the opening where an entwined thatch was meant to serve as gate was wide open. The thatch broke off some days back. Onyema knew they couldn't fix it now. His father probably waited for the dry season; when the sky seizes its tears; the green leaves turns brown and wither; the floor dry with cracks running through them.
It was during this dry season that huts, fences, and everything that had to do with heaping the red earth into a structure was built.
The unclad old priest emerged from the opening in the wall. His markings that was done by the female maidens dedicated to the shrine, was white. He looked completely different from the two little boys wearing goatskin skirt following him. They and everyone's skin was marked with charcoal.
The brass rattled as he pinned his staff into the earth. He walked around it chanting mantra and spirit dancing.
Onyema turned fully to Okochi. He held the bowl behind him; scared that Okochi might see it. He watched as his father ducked out his hut. Raising his voice over Okochi's chanting. "I greet you!" Okoro said. "my ancestors greet you!" Okoro broke kola in two and ate one part then broke the other and gave to the little boys behind Okochi.
Once the boys crushed the kola Okochi stopped dancing and spoke, eyes shining wide. "Okoro, son of ikenga, the gods are angry! They are furious!" he shook his head and spat irritably. "You insult the laws of the gods."
Onyema sat and crossed his legs in a yogasana position. So many things happened in the compound but none ever involved him. All he did was watch till it was over.
"Your mother was among the women struck down for protecting twins." Continued the old priest "and It was done by your very own father!"
The whole clan knew Okoro's disdain for his mother.
"The Great Korodo," Okoro bowed before speaking "you don't have to torment me with the sins of my mother. What have I done wrong?"
"Why have you not buried your daughter? The earth is crying for you refuse it a child!"
There was silence, even the goats stopped in their tracks and gazed at Okoro.
Age had drawn wrinkles on Okoro's face. It was visible in the saddened lines tugging the edges of his lips.
"How old are you, Okoro son of ikenga?" came the voice of Okochi. "How old are you?!"
His staff rattled as he uprooted it from the earth. All eyes followed him until he stood before Ebere's hut. "Sons, come and take the body!"
The goat-skin clad boys walked slowly and the cry of a mother pierced the air. She threw herself on the floor and rolled. Other crying women tried to hold her. Even the boys cried, but Onyema saw Dabiri from the corner of his eyes, looking at him. His heart skipped but his eyes didn't tear from the little boys that entered Ebere's room and emerged with ebere, tied to bamboo. Her dead face staring at everybody, her stomach was pumped. She was almost reaching her third trimester. The way the boys held the ends of the bamboo over their shoulders, one would think Ebere weighed feathers.
"Stop!" Ordered Okochi "I smell yawo in this compound." He moved around shaking his staff. To Onyema's greatest surprise, he was heading his direction. His heart leaped and the bowl behind him vibrated in his trembling hand. He stood up.
"I smell foul play in this compound!" the old man was standing face to face with Onyema, looking directly in his eyes. "Onyema, son of Okoro..."
Nobody saw, but scorn pasted on Okoro's face.
Everyone had fallen quiet and was anticipating what would happen next. Even Ebere's mother's agony froze with her gaze fixated on Onyema.
"Son of Okoro," the old man continued. "What are these things you draw?" he moved to Onyema's hut and perused the wall, running fingers on the mural. He stood there long enough for every detail of the art to be cataloged in one's head.
The old man whirled and walked out silently—in exception of the rattling brass on his staff, ankles, and wrist. Okoro and his sons followed suit. Except Onyema.
Their only sister, whose pregnancy was a mystery was dead.
They came back much later in the day, when the sun was orange and weak, falling to sleep.
The silence that followed was profoundly deep. Even Ebere's mom's sniffle had disappeared. The whole compound had gone cold. Even the crickets didn't chirp, and the frog didn't croak. Onyema laid on his bamboo bed with his fingers entwined below his thorax, enjoying the serene of the night.
It was never this quite. On a normal night, the thudding of a pounding mutter, or the singing of the unmarried girls or the shout and play of the young ones, will fill the night. In bushes, young adults lay with each other and so on. But this night was cold, literary cold.
The weeks passed and the months traversed. No one ever came to look at Onyema's hut, at what Okochi saw. Maybe they did in his absence, but nobody ever confronted him about it.
One day after he must have finished painting twelve black sheep around a crown—the exact type of crown a titled man wears— he retired to his bed and began to think of his father's yam.
The next thing someone was tapping him. "Onyema, wake up!" it was Ojiri's voice. At first, he thought he was dreaming and turned the other side "Onyema wake up!" the tap continued and he was now awake with a throbbing heart. Probably the first time he felt fear in his life. He had heard of ghost visiting their relatives but none visited him. Not even Adaku, his late mother.
"Onyema!" the voice came in whispers, the more reason he hasn't uttered a word. "It's me Ojiri. Wake up! Wake up!" and the voice was unmistakable, it was really him.
He finally mustered the courage to tilt his head. His room was not so dark that he only saw white eyes staring at him. "Ojiri?" onyema managed to utter. "What... How are you here?"
"There is no time to talk about that, if father sees me here he will strike me with his machete. Stand up, I am taking you out of here. I have found freedom." he was tugging at Onyema's wrist impatiently "Hurry, my brothers are waiting."
Brothers? Onyema thought, "is Dabiri coming too?"
"Shhh bring your voice down," he was still tugging Onyema by the wrist urging him to stand up. "No not them, I have found love. Hurry."
Onyema had no choice, there was nothing for him here or anywhere.
They tiptoed across the compound under the effulgent light of the moon. Onyema thought Dabiri would emerge from his hut with a cutlass and chase them. The thoughts of someone watching them from the shadows of their hut tormented him. Maybe one of the women waiting to see the hut Okoro would pleasure himself in tonight. Or Okoro himself spotting them on his way to the Hut in question.
It was when they got to the opening in the wall that a voice came. Unmistakably, it was Okoro. "Who is there?!" Onyema's heart sunk. Without warning, Ojiri tightened his grip on his wrist and bolted.
Onyema's legs were moving faster than they have ever moved. For the long minutes they ran, there were no shuffling feet pacing behind them. They stopped at the entrance of a narrow path bordered by bushes on both sides.
Standing before Ojiri, Onyema was puzzled at his clothing. It covered most of his body. In fact, his general aura was different.
"What are you wearing?"
"Onyema," Ojiri motioned and held him by the shoulder. "There are so many things we don't know about!"
Onyema's demeanor didn't shift. It was as if he didn't care what Ojiri was saying. "what are you wearing?" he asked again, eyes roaming and fingers feeling on fabric.
"It's a shirt," Ojiri said softly. He knew his brother and knew that he didn't care about anything.
"What is a shirt?"
"You know where this path leads to right?" Ojiri said seriously trying to hold his gaze in the night. The moon was quite bright. One could see the colour of the bush around them.
"What is a shi-"
"If you follow me," Ojiri interjected impatiently. He looked around before he continued. "You will be cut out of this family!"
"I am already cut out. There is nothing for me."
Ojiri nodded. He locked his teeth so his jaw muscles would ripple out. "That was why I came back for you." he dug into his bag hanging from his shoulder and retrieved a touch. Immediately he flipped it on, he saw amazement run across Onyema's face. He smiled.
"Come on," he tugged at Onyema's wrist and the bushes swallowed them.
In Obanta clan, there was a silent fuss hovering above them. Some albinos had come into their village with their magic and began to win the people to their practice. This silent Fuss was generated by the minorities that protested against the magic. They wanted to use machete to break down their hut and burn the thatch to ashes. But they could only wish. They had meetings in small groups and plotted but none of their revolts paid off.
This magic was so strong that it turned the kingsmen amongst themselves. The ones that wore the nikka and shirt given by the albinos began to feel superior to the 'naked' ones.
They went as far as letting the albinos hang men from trees.
Most of these albinos were clergy sent on missionary to Africa. They spoke as if they were singing; as if a clip was on their nose. They spoke through a translator, a black man just like them. But his tone was a bit metallic and language—although comprehendible—was different. The albinos spoke about a God that no one has seen—a faceless God—the creator of the earth—their farms and hut, trees and chickens. "He created them all..."
Onyema is presently sitting beside Ojiri in the shrine of the new God listening to what an albino was saying. After two days of walking the bushes and camping at night, they reached a wide opening, just as big as his compound back home. There was a big Hut at the centre of the compound. The compound was amid the bushes. It didn't have a fence around it. There were leaves littered everywhere. Some men were still striking branches and grasses down, gaining more ground.
To others, it would look like a rebellion camp, but Onyema locked his gaze on the full-grown albino wielding a machete. It was only in stories told by Ebere that he heard of albinos but he had never seen any. They were thrown into the evil forest at birth. The albino onyema would later recognize as Hemsworth, was perspirating. He colored red like a heated brass.
That night Onyema didn't sleep, he kept his eyes open until he heard the first voice. Consciousness became contagious and within minutes the Camp was back to life. The sun rose and they began to sing and clap their hands. Ojiri Drew nearer to him and said, "We are praising God."
He was admiring the shirt Ojiri gave him. it was a gift from the albino, Mr. Hemsworth. It was plain black. He liked it and was deeply intrigued by it and didn't hear what Ojiri said.
"Onyema," Ojiri tapped his shoulder. Holding his gaze, he said, "We are praising the Lord." he was expecting onyema to ask questions.
"The albino is a good man," said onyema. Itching closer to Ojiri, he spoke in hushed tone. "which of the albinos are hanging men from trees?"
Ojiri let out a painful sigh. He was expecting something else. "Those men were sent back."
"back where?"
"Britain." an educated man's head would turn at such unnecessarily stretch of syllabus. "That's where they came from." they both spoke in whispers "their ships floated on water for months." he demonstrated with his hand. "He said most of them died.
Onyema's focus was back to the men clapping and singing, barely heard what Ojiri wrapped up. "Why are they dancing early?"
"Today is Sunday-"
Onyema interjected. "What is inside that hut." he was pointing to the large hut. Its body was free from markings unlike Korodo's. Only a cross was novicely drawn at the top of the entrance.
Excitement tightened up in Ojiri's stomach. He has been wanting to do this a long time: Introduce a familiar person to the new God. "It's the shrine of the new God," Ojiri told him, trying to take it slowly.
Onyema didn't say anything until they proceeded into the hut, sitting on the floor, beside Ojiri, his concentration was fixed on Mr. Hemsworth. He held a big book, but onyema had no idea what it was. Ojiri had told him there was much he didn't know about.
Onyema was listening to what the translator was saying but his gaze was locked on the albino, Hemsworth. The small and pointed nose he had; one would fear he wasn't getting enough air.
How little his lips parted when he spoke and the funny looking texture and color of his hair. Onyema had the excited curiosity of a child that had just seen something for the first time.
"He created them all," the translator said but to Onyema, he heard it from the albino's lips. "Your farms, goats, chickens, yam.." Hemsworth stressed on the yam because he knew how important it was to them. It served as money and food at the same time. "He accepts everyone, twins, outcasts, thieves, and sinners..." Suppressed murmur always waved around the shrine when Mr. Hemsworth said that. But Hemsworth didn't let it get the better of his teachings. Increasing his voice to be heard over the murmur he continued firmly. "Yes, he accepts them all. There is always joy and celebration at the convert of an unbeliever." he stood up from his tiny stool and Onyema watched him approach. Standing before Onyema he stretched his hands to assist Onyema up. Onyema looked at Ojiri who gave a nod of approval with a slight smile torn on his lips. Onyema took the Albino's hand.
"Do you believe in The Great Korodo?" he heard what the translator said but he didn't answer. Mr. Hemsworth asked again. "Do you believe in The Great Korodo?"
Onyema didn't answer. Ojiri motion up so he was standing shoulder to shoulder with onyema. Moving his lips to Onyema's ear, he whispered. "Brother please reply." he gestured for Mr. Hemsworth to ask again.
"Do you believe in The Great Korodo?"
Onyema nodded. "Yes." he barely uttered.
"Understandable." Mr. Hemsworth shook his head. "But I am here to tell you that Korodo is powerless and wicked!"
As much as Onyema tried not to give it a thought, he couldn't help but laugh inwardly but on the surface, an amazed smile curved on his lips. "Powerless?" he craned to his brother to see how amazed he was-but his face was plain as though he didn't hear what the albino just said.
"He said Korodo is powerless."
"You can laugh all you want. But I tell you nothing but the truth. He is your father and creator and happy to receive you back."
Onyema's stomach grumbled audibly. The sides of his stomach gripped with hunger. "Will he give me yam?" Onyema asked. "Would he give me a big compound?"
When the interpreter spoke to Hemsworth, he was fast to reply. "Yes, yes," Hemsworth said more excitedly. "He will give you everything you ask for. Everything, only!" he raised his index to the air. "Only if you denounce Korodo and serve the living God."
There was nothing to think about. Onyema accepted within the second. They gathered by the stream and Onyema was deep into the water and given a new name, John, and new clothes which he was asked to wash every day. He slowly learnt their prayers and language. He joined them to sweep and clear the compound, to eat and sing to God under the moonlight.
He was so slow to learn that after seven months of living with the albinos—who Ojiri said weren't albinos—He couldn't get himself to speak their language but he was getting familiar with words like, eat, go, come, and most of the single-syllabus word.
Mr. Hemsworth fell sick with iba on the eight-month. Onyema knew it was iba because he could see that he was perspirating and also shivering. Tiny red bumps dotted around his forearm and his eyes were red.
The black translator with brown kinky dreads and built body was standing by the entrance, just below a crucifix. Mr. Hemsworth sent for him but he stopped in his tracks at the sight of Onyema. His pure disdain for him momentarily flashed on his face. How could one be so annoying? He does nothing but gaze at the moon and weave grasses... And eat Yam! Paul, the translator thought.
Ojiri once told Onyema that Paul was an Osu–outcast. But his guess was that he wasn't listening. He told him that paul's father was an albino, that the albinos had come a long time ago. And like a lawnmower, they moved and covered more ground. "it was only a matter of time before they reached Ekenwa."
"What is a lawnmower?"
Ojiri ignored him because he himself didn't know what it was. From his complex understanding of it, passing it on to another primate was a tedious task.
"Before he was saved by the sacrament of baptism, his heathen name was Ojadike." He continued but he wasn't sure Onyema was listening to him. "He tells scary story's from his experience as an Osu in Uli. Father once said that Ekenwa's fore-fathers went to war with Uli. He boasted that his great grandfather's spare had killed at least ten men before he was struck down." Ojiri paused a while, savouring memories of his father and the stories he told back then. He craned to the moon. "It's a full moon. The people would have laid their goat-skin mat on the floor, while the elderly ones clean their tusk. "Dabiri is probably sitted on raised earth before his relatives, telling a story."
"I never attended one after you left." by attending Onyema meant, sitting at least ten strides away.
Ojiri nodded. He didn't tear his gaze from the moon. "Paul told the story of how his brother died. How he had felt nothing, how he had thought it was orthodox for Obioma to be sacrificed to cleanse the land when an alleged calamity befell the Obanta clan.
Osu were people brought back from war and they had no right to anything. They couldn't have farms, tittles, and huts in the clan. They lived close to the shrine of The Great Ofin. Almost at the boarders of the evil forest. They owned the hut one would pass when on a mission to dispose a taboo brought to life. They were the ones that heard babies cry in the bushes. Some times it was an albino, other times, twins. one dead and the other alive. It was Ijeoma and Odinaka that carried the living boy and trained him as their own. They were the ones that named him Ojadike and told him this story when he was eleven. It was their children that were taken to the shrine at birth to be dedicated to the great Ofin. The females, mostly chosen, remained at the shrine. The males were left to roam; with strict restrictions to their movement. They were the ones marked with white chalk when they were to be slain for cleansing the land. It rarely happened but it happened to Obioma, Ojadike's brother. Ijeoma was the one that threw her self to the floor and wept when Ojadike said he was going to the shrine of new God that came with the white men. "They would accept us," he urged her to follow him. "Please mama," but she cursed him and ducked into her Hut. Odinaka, his father stood by the side with his hands crossed over his chest. The sun cast its shadow through the tall trees around their compound.
The day Ojadike finally left them, he wept as he scurried through the bushes at night. Mr. Hemsworth received him with open arms and had given him something that covered his body. He refused to cut his dust-caked dread. He said he didn't really see it as a punishment, he liked it. Mr. Hemsworth shrugged. "It doesn't determine who you are." He was immersed in water, then given the name Paul. He quickly learnt their language and read their books. He said one word many times to intuitively recognize it. Sometimes a sentence. "I am here sir, what shall I do for you?" Paul would mutter with effort. He would continue until he could say it perfectly.
He became their translator when their lawnmower was ready to move forward. It became his vocation which he did with rigorous passion. There was this joy that kindled in him each time he was called upon. He would try to convey the message as accurately as possible. Although a sentence takes him like a minute to decipher. But he was all the white men had.
But seeing Onyema sitting beside Mr. Hemsworth's spring bed, that joy began to fade. There was this hatred he felt contract in his heart each time he saw Onyema.
He felt he had stalled too long, he moved to Hemsworth hoping his hate wasn't evident on his face-for the Bible said to love your neighbor as yourself. "Master," he knelt and felt Hemsworth's burning skin. He gazed at Onyema and was about to speak before Hemsworth coughed. It was deep and had a wheezing sound, Thick and juicy. "Get him water," Paul said in an authoritative tone.
"No," Hemsworth blocked Onyema from standing up. "it's alright."
He coughed again. "I want to tell him something, please can you help me?"
"Of course master," he reached for his hand and covered it with his. "You don't have to beg!"
Hemsworth smiled. Paul's loyalty was unquestionable. "I will be leaving soon," Hemsworth said. "I have stayed too long here. Another priest will be arriving next week to take over."
With effort, Paul understood what Hemsworth said. Hemsworth had told him that his stay wasn't permanent, that he would go someday.
"Is it because of the iba?" I can journey in search of roots and leaves to cure you but you-"
Hemsworth smiled, but his lips barely parted. "It's malaria, not Iba. We brought drugs that we give every month to the villagers. If I wanted to take anything, it would be them." he coughed and it wheezed. Without asking, Paul left the hut. And as he returned, he carefully guided a leave filled with water. He fitted it on Hemsworth's lips and he sipped slowly.
Onyema was standby totally clueless about what was transpiring. The whole time Hemsworth sipped the water, he watched as his Adam's apple slid up and down.
"I had a covenant with God en route to Africa." Hemsworth continued. "That night the waves of the sea clashed loudly against our vessel. And in my dream I saw a bright light then the voice, so stale, yet audible. It was as if the voice was embodied within me. Within the second we had that covenant and I woke up. It's been four years since I arrived here. Why now, why now my stay is almost over? I refuse to take medication. He has to stand by his word."
Paul was still amazed about this God they were serving. They worshiped, argued and demanded things from them. (Hemsworth had tried to explain that He was three people but still one. Himself, his son and spirit.) The God was incomprehensible. It was like they feared him but didn't respect him. He even accepted me, Paul thought. He never imagined himself appointed in such participating vocation till death. Jesus must be truly merciful.
"What do you want me to tell the boy?" Paul asked.
Hemsworth dipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved an evenly folded piece. "This," he handed it to Paul. "I want him to draw this here, inside this hut. His brother told me of his awesome talent."
The picture was faded, part of it had cleaned off. But one could spot a blonde girl in a cowboy hat smiling broadly. One with good eyesight would know she wore white singlet and shorts that revealed long legs in high top boots.
When Paul told Onyema what Hemsworth wanted, he smiled.
"I need a precious stone."
Ojiri explained what Onyema called precious stone "Chalk, he needs chalk." Chalk was brought to him and he began work. It irritated Paul as Onyema spat into the bowl. He mixed it and started painting. The evening came and onyema was still drawing a line. Hemsworth admitted it would take time.
"The girl in the picture is my daughter...interpret it, I want the boy to hear this." Paul nodded.
"Just the day I was ordained a priest. My mother came with the news that I had a child. The train of suspense and fear that transpired after that was unimaginable long. If I start there, I might never finish. I think I have a little time left." he coughed.
"Take it easy... I should get water."
"No, there is no time." this time he coughed and when he spat, there was blood.
The whole time Onyema didn't tear his gaze from what he was doing. It was late and dark. The yellow light from the oil lamp was what illuminated the room.
"After all that transpired, it was agreed that if I ever wanted to continue in the liturgical circle, I had to distance my self from her, her name is Gold. And she really is gold. Eighteen years of not setting my eyes on her, I recognized her instantly.
For the first time, Paul interjected. "How did you know it was your daughter?"
Hemsworth flashed a weak smile,
"Angela, she looked a lot like her mother. I knew it wasn't Angela because I was the priest that prayed for her before her corpse fell into the cement boot. The way Gold smiled, and her ever affixed cowboy hat that shaded her eyes when the sun was scorching, the way she spoke... I could even see my nose affixed on her face." Hemsworth paused to catch his breath. And for effect. "When I spoke to her by the bar, she said, 'My father is my Precious Stone.' she smiled and removed her hat. "I thank him for giving me an opportunity in this crazy world." That was when tears rolled down my eyes. She had the exact same eyes as Angela. Dried leaf brown. I told her I was a priest and I was going to Africa for missionary the next day. She gave me a couple of Pounds and toys to gift the children I see over here. She didn't have much. Although I observed how hard she works; the way her phone kept ringing. It was when she wanted to leave that I asked to take that picture. She flashed the warmest smile I had ever seen. It was heart-melting. I visibly froze, lost in her graciousness. It was the only belonging I brought to Africa, now it's fading away. It was last year that I wrote precious stone behind the picture. She is my precious stone."
They gazed at Onyema and he was just looking at that line he was drawing.
Epilogue.
There was a story about a priest that went on Missionary to Africa and died there. Articles say that the priest died in his hut immediately after narrating the story of his Precious Stone. He was buried in his hut because before he died, the local artists named Onyema-meaning who knows-He had asked to draw his Precious Stone drew a large cross instead. Some Articles say, Hemsworth looked at the cross for a long time and decided to die there, with the picture of his daughter in his pocket.
It was professor Paul that wrote about this story later in his literary life!
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End*
I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I loved writing it.
Thank you for reading up to this point. It means a lot to me. Thank you!!!
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