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)

beautiful...

9ice story....caught my attention

Things has fallen apart 'The center cannot hold, mere anarchy is loose upon the world' A great icon has gone but he lives on! Adieu Chinua Achebe As a child, i remembered how the movie Things fall apart made me cry when the mighty Okonkwo killed Ikemefuna and i also read the literature in secondary school... i love ur work

Omicron,is that the Odocha i know

centje: Omicron,is that the Odocha i know

yea, the one u knw

omicron: yea, the one u knw

wow! I was rushing out when i saw this thread. Just finished reading it now.

We shouldn't be so worried then,we've got upcoming achebe.
I will give her a call. She has always liked my works,always encouraged me to explore more.
It's time for me to return the encouragement.