OP come and update o

FIRST, I MUST APOLOGIZE TO MY READERS FOR THE DELAYED UPDATE. I WAS BUSY MARKING EXAM SCRIPTS FOR THE JUST CONCLUDED FIRST TERM EXAMS. MY STUDENTS ALL SCORED As #laughing




Obike is running in the bushes. He is running so hard; as hard as his legs can possibly carry him. For love sake, he runs. He prayed to the gods to please save the love of his life. Tears came down his eyes as he runs. Not bothering to wipe them off, he descended in self blame. He blamed himself for all that it is Uloma is currently going through. He blamed himself for not for not taking charge of the situation. He blamed himself for not insisting that she remains at home. In his heart, Obike knows Uloma not going to the stream, will not in any way make him go in her stead. It does not look dignifying for a man to go fetch water for his woman, however her condition.

Machismo is a trend among the male folks in Ugwunato. A man, at no point, should be perceived weak. An expressed show of love, gratitude and affection, especially to the opposite sex, could be considered quite demeaning. A man must always be in control of his woman (or women, however the case may be) even if it leans very much towards outright arrogance. In as much as they considers the female folks a partner in social engineering, they still do not see them as equals.

Men who pounds yams for their wives, sweep the compound and do other domestic chores are often talked lowly of behind their back. Even the female folks are very conscious of this disparity that exists between the genders. Some wives goes as far as barring their husband or grown-up sons from visiting their kitchens. It is considered an affront to feminine dignity for a husband to go help himself at the soup of his wife while she is around. In such cases where the wife is not around, the husband can instruct any female around to do so for him on her behalf.

Men, who may probably out of arrogance or sheer disregard for their spouse, visit the soup pot of their wife, in effects insults their own masculine pride. Such men are often lowly regarded by their wives, even if she may not be able to voice it out. In order not to put each other in a difficult situation,a wife with prior knowledge that she may not be home early enough to prepare and serve her husband his meal, does have them prepared and dished out before going out. This, in effect, saves the husband from having to go to the soup pot or consequently staying hungry.

It is in fact common knowledge that wives uses this opening to, in effect, protest against certain dissatisfactions within the home. An unhappy wife would intentionally delay her husband’s meal, knowing well enough that he would not dare go near her soup pot. To carry out these devious acts, the wives first rid the entire compound of all females by either engaging them on demanding chores or sending them away on far errands or even outrightly instructing them not to go near her soup pot for whatever reason. Such little acts like this brings about some form of equity into the family justice system.

Ironically, it is considered virtuous that a woman attempts tasks that are societally considered to be male oriented. But it is virtually not the same, when a man does the same to the feminine oriented tasks. He is in fact jeered and booed and is regarded as an “Efulefu”; one who has evidently lost his bearing in life.

Splitting firewood, hunting games, farming yams, mending fences, owning yam barns, climbing palm trees, tapping palm wine, wrestling and defending the clan are all masculine oriented duties and responsibilities. It is always applauded when a woman engages herself in all of these, except strangely of course, for such tasks like the climbing of palm trees and tapping palm wine.

It is societally considered to be indecent for a woman to climb the palm trees, either to cut down a ripen fruit or to tap palm wine. Local sayings almost comically but quite graphically puts it that “when a woman climbs a palm tree with two rippened fruits, one is tempted to see four when she gets up there”. For the native folks, Olisá bí ñgwé (Supreme Being) had naturally adapted the different genders to suit their assigned tasks and responsibilities; all to the smooth sailing of humanity.

Obike bite his lower lips in a show of summoned courage. “Stop acting like a woman” he muttered to himself. “Now isn’t the time to start shedding tears like a young widow. Obike! Now is the time to man up and confront difficulties like real men do”.

Soon, his excellent woodscraftman's instinct drew his attention a certain portions of slashed vegetation. Shrubs and leaves scattered the area. The cuts were so neat to be considered just a mere random act of a wild animal; hereby suggesting machete aided cuts. It was clear evidence of a recent human presence.

Obike stopped dead on his track. He dried his reddened teary eyes. Then he carefully began to study the vegetation, as his head charts the course of what it is that lies ahead. With a satisfied stare about his eyes, he hit his chest twice with his free left hand. Reassuring himself of his indomitability. He went on his way; following in the path created by the falling vegetation.


It is now a little to fifteen minutes since her delivery and the placenta is still not out. Uloma is fully awake and conscious, but strangely, not yet reenergized. With the cord connecting her to her baby severed, it just lie awkwardly on the grasses. The stones were simply pushed aside in order to create more arms space.

Aniebolam sat still on the glasses adjacent to the lying woman. His leg were folded slightly underneath his buttocks in a yoga pose. His elbows rested on his thighs as his palms both formed a fists under his jaw, to carry the weight of his head. He focused his sight on the gently sleeping baby. The baby had strangely not made any sound since birth, but one could tell that the baby is very much alive as there were obvious respiratory signs. Aniebolam could not bear to look beyond the baby’s face to the discomforting sight below the woman. It was quite unnerving seeing how the severed umbilical cord, tied at one end, snakes away into the woman’s vagina.

Soon, there was noise. It was clearly the noise of approaching footsteps. As the footsteps approached even closer, one could not mistake the swooshing sounds of slashing blade against the vegetation. Uloma quickly motioned to Aniebolam by means of a hand signal to come carry her baby away into hiding. Her eyes were greatly alert. One could as well sense the heightened panic in them. Aniebolam too was scared.

Uloma had her right index finger placed across his lips in the universal sign that clearly states “No Noise” as Aniebolam approached her for the baby. He could not help but notice the motherly reluctance in handing over her child to him. But unfortunately, she had to do so if she ever wants her baby to have a chance at life.

Uloma summoned some inner strength to carry the baby with the care of a mother to her face. She looked the baby very closely in the face, trying desperately to take in some of his facial features. Then she gave him a very passionate kiss on the cheek, after which she motioned to Aniebolam to take him off her hands. Those hands were just too reluctant but they eventually had to slowly let go. Hot tears came down the side of her eyes and disappeared into the thick of her hair as she watched Aniebolam gently advanced away from her, with her baby, towards the taller elephant grasses. The moment of true is about to be unfolded before her very eyes, and she was indeed having that strange feeling that she may not get out of it alive The tears just continued to flow effortlessly.


The men advanced into what obviously was a clearing of shorter lush green grasses. Lying in front of them is JACKPOT!

Hmmmmmmm


OP tanks for the update

Thanks for the update. But e short o

CHAPTER FIVE


The final preparations are in top gear. The warriors are adjusting their body armor. some are expertly examining the readiness of their weapon. Machete blows are slashed at imaginary enemies in diting effort to gauge the strength of the arms. Daring warriors had their mate hit them murderous blows from their machete in a mock show of the efficacy of their “Odéshi”. Talismans and bracelets are being sprinkled wet with water to reawaken the spirit in them in readiness to the task that lies ahead.

Each man was dancing to the ceremonial song that plays in his own head. Some were totally enveloped in the euphoria surrounding them and also within them. Some, of course, were having a quiet, secluded moment all to themselves. These ones are engaged in some sort of soul searching; making peace with themselves and their personal chi. For no matter the level of preparations and the element of surprise involved, one can never tell the most likely outcome of a battle. It is on its own a dicey situation of life and death.

In the makeshift command post further outback, thick white smoke were in slow motion coming out of a small earthen pot. The pot had palm fronds tied around its neck. Holding the pot suspended in the air is a scantily dressed man. He was otherwise naked apart from the leaves that covers his penial region. On his lips were also palm fronds; sealing it tight. His left eyes were ringed with white chalk. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he had two dwarf apprentices to his sides. They are helping to hold his hand steady in the air. The earthen pot must not fall neither should his hands come down until the appointed hour.

The name of the man is Akrika and he is the greatest rainmaker in all of Umuagu. Outside his spiritual calling, he has a regular job as a butcher. When in his elements, one will find it difficult to believe it is the same Akrika that is always jovial and easy going to customers who comes to his stall to buy meat at the Nkor market.

Before the Caucasians came to make a mocking mess of the entire system by erroneously classifying them all as witch doctors, there was indeed specializations. Every native African society had her own rainmaker. He is more like the native meteorologist. Societies as well had their herbalists. These ones are known for their vast knowledge of the various pharmaceutical remedies contained in the many herbs and roots of the forest. It is a known fact that Africans were already treating “Ibá” (Malaria) long before the Westerns discovered quinine. Medically speaking, African societies had experienced midwives who helped women deliver their babies, native orthopedics where bones are reset and, of necessity, home for lepers.

African societies also have the various custodians to the different groves and shrines, as it is uncommon for a society to have only one “Ajá ala” or “Ajá ani” (venerated spirit). These custodians are usually the medium by which the immortal communicates with the mortals. Custodians are there strictly for religious matters. But it is equally important to state herein that it is almost difficult to divorce the conventional running of a primitive African society from her spirituality. The African fervently upholds the belief that the physical is being controlled or directed in the realm of the spiritual. This idealistic outlook to reality is obviously the single biggest factor that influences her Iwù, Omenani and Odinani (laws, customs and traditions)

Sitting among this eminent class of men is Ogbuefi Oforbike. When judging by the greyness of hair and the wrinkles of the face, Ogbuefi Oforbike is evidently the youngest. But when judging by wealth and accomplishments, he is indeed among the top three. Ogbuefi Oforbike is a very blessed farmer. He owns one of the biggest yam barn in the whole of Umuagu. It is commonly said, though greatly exaggerated, that Ogbuefi Oforbike own enough yams to keep Umuagu well-fed for two planting seasons.

Ogbuefi Oforbike is only a wife away from attaining the Ijele title. The Ijele title is the biggest title in the land. It has been decades since the last Ijele died. There have never been a time in recallable history when the town had more than one Ijele in a lifetime. The Ijele title is a title that comes with so much responsibilities. Too many dos, as well as too many don’ts. There is a tremendous requirement for moral uprightness, spiritual stamina and financial muscles involved in undertaking such a title. The communal “Ofor” is essentially handed over to the holder in an elaborate ceremony such that the community have never experienced the likes of.

With the communal “Ofor” in his hands, the holder is never expected to tell lies. He must always say the truth at all times, even to the pain of death. It is commonly believed that the Ijele is indestructible by mere mortals, and so therefore, should not fear for his own life once he is on the path of truth. This necessitated the native sayings that “life is in the truth”, because the Ijele seizes to live the very day he tells a lie. The Ijele must have nothing to do or eat anything from a menstruating woman, neither should he be engaged in any task that will take away his two legs from standing on the ground. Ijeles do not tap palm wine nor cut down palm fruits. This is indeed “omenani”.

“Omenani” should not be confused with “Odinani”. while “omenani” loosely translates to “how we do it”, “odinani” means “it is in the land”. Omenani is the encompassing customary norms that is uniquely Igbo. It is not subjected to change. There could quite understandably be slight modifications from place to place, but the central theme is never ever to be changed. Perfect examples, is the presentation of kolanut to a guest as a sign of your warm hospitality and, of course, the payment of the bride price for a maiden to be considered legitimately your wife.

“Odinani” on the other hand is unique to a particular geographical space within the confederated Igbo nation. “Odinani” changes from one locate to the next one. What is “Odinani” in one clan, may not necessarily be “Odinani” in the neighboring clan. An example is the sacrilegious killing of pythons or the forbidden eating of snails.

Ogbuefi Oforbike is sitting on a small stool in a parallel row of two. Each of the rows had four men. They are sitting opposite each other in communion. In their midst, sitting on the ground, is the rainmaker with his two dwarf apprentices helping to keep his hands up. The rainmaker has evidently been doing an effective job for the better part of two hours. He has kept the weather on a standstill. Even though there are the obvious signs of rain, but quite strangely, not a single rain droplet has touched the earth.

The act of rainmaking making is known to take an enormous toll on the physical health of its practitioners. Most especially when such is working against the seasons. One whose arm is not strong in medicine, stands the risk of sustaining, through inexplicable means, bodily injuries or even death when he tries to conjure up a rain during dry seasons or to stop one during the rainy seasons.

Ogbuefi Oforbike is lost in his own thoughts. He is a veteran of many wars. Many of which they had returned triumphant. It is not how to fight that bothers him, either is it the blood that is to be spilled. He had seen so much blood in his lifetime to be cowed by even more blood. He had seen towns raided, men murdered in their bed, innocent children slaughtered, defenseless girls raped, pregnant women disemboweled and their unborn babies brought out; only to end up smashing their heads against a tree. It is all common in wars. So he is no longer unnerved by them. But what troubles him now is the seeming sequential pattern many of these conflicts seems to follow. A pattern of which its accuracy had left him stunningly speechless.

Conflicts in primitive African society have, quite strangely, being all about proving a point. A point of which is most of the time obscured. These primitive conflicts have always had little or nothing to do with land. They are barely about the desperate need for food or even shelter. It is never about the ownership of a stream or any other fresh water source for that matter. These conflict had never in itself been about subjugating a people for expected material gains or political advantages. These conflicts have simply arose from the dire need to satisfy the spiritual.

Man, as a possessive being, can have all he wants or needs in stock. He can have a big barn to stock up his yams. He can have a big coop to stock up his chickens. He can improve his shed to stuck up his goats and cows. He can as well grow his family or hire labor in order to have more farm hands. All these he can do; but he cannot in anyway have his stock of his fellow man.

In the spiritual realm, it is believed that sacrifices are valued on the order of rarity. The blood of a sacrificial cock is certainly not as valued as that of a goat. This could, as well, be because it may quite naturally require more to offer the later than the former. Likewise is the blood of a sacrificial goat not as valuable as that of a cow. The highest of all sacrifices is the human sacrifice which, of course in itself, has its own rankings.

The Clan can easily bring forth yams for sacrifice when the “spirits” demands for them. She can easily bring forth cocks and goats and cows, when the “spirits” demands for these. One man can conveniently walk up to his yam barn or chicken coop or goat shed, and selflessly donate any of these on behalf of the clan. But very unfortunately, such is not the case when the “spirits” demands for a human sacrifice.

No one has a stock of humans anywhere to present forth as sacrifice. Voluntary self-sacrifice are at many times considered inconceivable. For it is strictly a taboo to spill the blood of a “nwadiala” (son of the soil). This eventually leads to a dilemma; a pandemic search for a human being. This is so because on occasions, the continuous existence of these primitive societies are meant to be believed is hinged on these sacrifices.

Suffice it to say that this is the principal offshoot of the “osu caste system” in Igboland: the dire need to have a reservoir or stock of humans to be used for sacrifices when the spirits wants one.

Ogbuefi Oforbike had proposed to “Ndichies” (the Council of Elders) prior to the attack that “Since Ugwunato had remained adamant in owning up to her mistake and paying the necessary reparations, it is only nice that we return back the favor”.

Scratching his moustache, allowing for the pause to add weight to what he was about to propose.

“Let us launch a surprise attack on them swine, capture as many as we need, forcefully bring them down here and dedicate their pathetic lives to the gods” he had said in strongly mouthed word. Pushing the air to his side with his clenched right fist.

The elders had accepted his proposal with warmth. Many of them nodding their head in agreement. Some even went on to ask their colleague why they hadn't thought of it first.
Soon, the much anticipated smoke signal from the forward detachment began to rise in the sky. It was evidently coming from a few miles towards Ugwunato. The warriors knew at once that the moment of truth was here.

Ogbuefi Oforbike raised to his foot with lightning speed. He took a few springy steps forward and then backward again to where he had stood. It is a manly dance that exhumes confidence. Some of the warriors abruptly broke into a run. Running a few pace forward in masculine panache, swinging around in one fluidly movement, and then returning back to their position; raising their machetes and slashing at imaginary enemies. Muscular ones had their chest muscles vibrate in rhythm to the fire that burns in their hearts.

The warriors are all fired up. They are indeed not smiling. There was absolutely nothing to smile about when the task ahead is about life and death. They are to kill without mercy. They are to kill for vengeance sake. They shall kill for glory sake. Men, women, children and all who deserve to die must die!

The question is do these people, women and children alike, really deserve to die? Are they co-conspirators or just helpless passengers in a vehicle that they have no control of? It was now indeed too late to consider all of these. The warriors of Umuagu have blood in their eyes….and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, even the gods themselves could do; other than to sit aside and, perhaps, watch!

Uloma watched, surprisingly fearlessly, as the two zombie like creatures cornered her in their gradually approach, ever closer to where she lies. The muscular one was moving eastward towards her head, while the other moved southwards where her legs were spread out. Her stomach was still protruded. The severed umbilical cord still lying awkwardly on the ground, and yet snaked into her vagina. Her inner thighs still had on them congealed blood and other dried up birth matters; sufficient evidence that they had been a delivery. But very strangely, there was no baby around or anywhere within the reach of sight.

Uloma caught the smaller man’s eyes as they narrowed in disgust. His shoulders slightly shrank in repulsion. The sight below her was evidently discomforting to him as the flies have just refused to stay out. She felt some form of satisfaction that she was at least having an effect on her adversaries.

The muscular man was a little more conscious. The smaller man had told him by means of an eye signal that there had been a birth but no babies. This could only mean one thing. Someone or something must have been here before them. It is definitely not a wild animal because such would not take just the baby and spare the mother; leaving her with absolutely no form of injuries. Now, the men were even more alert. Some things are obviously not adding up.

Repulsed by her sight, the smaller man turned his back against her towards the bush in search of traces of what is left of who had been here before them. He expertly looked at the ground, but unfortunately, grasses do not keep footprints. soon the muscular man was standing by her side. He placed his rights foot on the stones Aniebolam had used to sever her umbilical cord. Beyond his hairy legs, Uloma could see the smaller man walking gradually towards the taller elephant grasses; there, Aniebolam is hiding with her baby…. her very first child.

Tears blurred out her sights as she prayed to the gods to please take her but spare the life of the child which they themselves had blessed her with.

“How much is too much to pay for the death of one maiden?” Uloma in teary eyes asked the man standing over her.

She could sense the hate behind his eyes. He was obviously not hesitating in taking her life. He is only psychologically tormenting her with the inevitability of her death; one way to have a soothing revenge on an Ugwunato female who have for a very long time always regarded them with disdain.

“For one maiden, you have killed three of our people including my best friend. For one maiden, more women will die. For one maiden, innocent children whose only crime was the accident of birth will also die....I ask you again, how much is too much to pay for one maiden?”

Uloma inasmuch as she fears for her own life, fears even more for the life of her baby. She was now raising her voice in order to dissuade the smaller man from any further search. It evidently worked as the man began to retreat away from the elephant glasses, back towards his colleagues. But unfortunately, that was the time her baby choose to announce his arrival into this wicked evil world. That was when he innocently decided to let out a cry.

Fearing that they have been cornered and possibly surrounded. The men panicked. The smaller man immediately turned around. And he draw out his machete, gallantly balancing himself in readiness for a fight. The muscular one without a second thought, raised his machete high above his head, and then it came down in a severe blow to the shout of “Ozoemenaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” from Uloma.

Uloma heard her baby’s cry and it touched her soul like it will for many mothers. She saw the men react. She saw the machete raised. But she, of course, did not see how the machete separated her head from the rest of her body, neither did she witness how her life-force forcefully pushed out the placenta. Everywhere went black before she had time to react. Her last words “Ozoemena” means that “such should never happen again”.

Thanks for the update. Mehn I love this story. just sad Uloma had to die.

Gr8 work.the plot and diction is so on point.but the upate is slow lol.

Damn! This is so emotional, thank you for this wonderful story.

Too bad

Thanks for the update

OP Why?

Hmmmmm

OP! Hope you have not forgotten us.

tahir01:
OP! Hope you have not forgotten us.

Not in any way. I'm a little tight for now. But I promise to start hitting you harder than you can keep up with. Thanks for your priceless followership. Merry Christmas.

Considering that I'm a person deeply enthralled with the profound rarity of the Igbo cultural heritage & will always unapologetically revere the sanctity of its history; this story though not in the same literary pedestal with the classic 'Things Fall Apart' still rekindles the same philosophical nostalgia in me that leaves me questioning the phenomenon of reincarnation as I'm literally thrown into a mental reverie that can only be best described by those who were physically here when the route beyond the breadfruit tree was always an access road.

The awesome descriptive panache of the OP is a laudable expression of literary greatness with original African uniqueness.

I hope to continue following this story with undivided attention.

OP you're very much appreciated.....Keep it on!

FredrickPablo:
Considering that I'm a person deeply enthralled with the profound rarity of the Igbo cultural heritage & will always unapologetically revere the sanctity of its history; this story though not in the same literary pedestal with the classic 'Things Fall Apart' still rekindles the same philosophical nostalgia in me that leaves me questioning the phenomenon of reincarnation as I'm literally thrown into a mental reverie that can only be best described by those who were physically here when the route beyond the breadfruit tree was always an access road.

The awesome descriptive panache of the OP is a laudable expression of literary greatness with original African uniqueness.

I hope to continue following this story with undivided attention.

OP you're very much appreciated.....Keep it on!

Blood of Jesus!!! You have just killed me!!! please shift let me just die!!! #laughing I am totally speechless!!! THANK YOU VERY MUCH AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU.

This Umuagu people are just beast, savages and very wicked people


Imagine, killing women and children... I'm sure if Uloma hasn't delivered already they'd remove the baby from her tummy
They will not succeed in this their bloody conquest... The gods must revenge oh
Please don't let anything happen to Obike
And the lil boy with the baby... I'm on my knees, nothing should happen to them


This is an amazing piece Adekunle0000
Keep up the good work
Expecting more updates

Wow! Just wow!
This is good stuff.
Come and continue, OP.

girlhaley:
This Umuagu people are just beast, savages and very wicked people


Imagine, killing women and children... I'm sure if Uloma hasn't delivered already they'd remove the baby from her tummy
They will not succeed in this their bloody conquest... The gods must revenge oh
Please don't let anything happen to Obike
And the lil boy with the baby... I'm on my knees, nothing should happen to them


This is an amazing piece Adekunle0000
Keep up the good work
Expecting more updates

Thank you very much. I appreciate your priceless comment. Will definitely be hitting you with more interesting updates. thanks again.

Austeeenxx:
Wow! Just wow! This is good stuff. Come and continue, OP.

I dey come Sir. thanks for the comment and compliment of the season.

Bia OP where you dey

CHAPTER SIX


Odumodu’s compound is indeed a very large one. His inheritance begins a few feet behind his fence, covering the entire clearing (Iró, Iló, or Mbará) around the Udara/Udala tree (African Star Apple), and stretching all the way to the pathway that leads directly to the stream. In siting his compound, Odumodu had loved to have it a bit further up, towards the main pathway. But for the sake of the Udara tree, he was forced to move further inward.

The Udara tree is the only one of such trees that can by any means influence architectural considerations. It is a tree that holds a lot of meaning according to native Igbo ontology. The Udara trees are believed to have the spirits of children inhabiting within them. Women and young maidens alike, seeking the blessings of the fruit of the womb are encouraged to sit under their shed. Customarily, an Udara tree cannot be easily displaced in order to site a building. And in very extreme cases where the Udara has to go, certain sacrifices are carried out in order to appease the spirits of the children that dwells therein.

Part of the requirements, is to seek the expressed approval of every single child living within the village. For those stubborn children who may not readily agree, one must patiently win over their heart with gifts and other kind approaches. This is so because one could in effect shot out the chance of having babies within his family if he arrogantly goes ahead to displace the Udara tree.

One could own a palm tree. One could own a breadfruit tree. One could as well, own a kola nut tree. But absolutely no one owns an Udara tree. The Udara tree is essentially believed to be owned by the children of the land. It is their very first property on mother Earth; owned even before they start growing teeth. it is believed that Ani (the earth goddess) does the proprietor an honour by having an Udara tree grow on his land. This by necessity, makes it wrong for one to claim ownership of the tree. Fruits from these trees are equally forbidden to be sold or bought for any reason. It is a natural treat from Ani (the earth goddess) to the children of the land; commercializing such divine benevolence is considered outrightly evil.

One is however, not allowed to climb up the Udara tree with the sole aim of plucking down its fruits. Stones, sticks and other objects thrown up with the intention of plucking down a fruit is equally forbidden. The fruits must be allowed to ripen and fall on its own. And whosoever it is that sees and picks it’s fruit first is allowed to go with it. It is therefore, not surprising for one to see children around the tree in the very early part of dawn; at about the time the sun is contemplating his shine.

Architecturally, one should never site the entrance to his compound away from the direction of the Udara tree or worst still, have his building back the direction of the Udara tree. These actions are customarily believed to send signal of perceived hostility to the spirits of children. Hereby, consequently preventing them from coming in. Traditionalist, by necessity, goes as far as creating another entrance that overlooks an Udara tree which may have accidentally grown behind their own backyard. Just like it is believed “that a woman wanting a child, does not go to bed wearing undies”, so also should accesses into one's compound be restricted, if one wishes to hear the crys of babies therein.

For comfort as well as for surveillance measures, it is ideal for one to site his building further down; conveniently three meters away from an Udara clearing. Udara trees, by nature, are known to attract children, who comes to play under it just as they come for its fruits. Kids in their excitement could quite possibly render the compound nearest to it unconducive with their joyful noises. It is, however, wrong for one to erect a fence round an Udara tree; for such is tantamount to personalization of a communal property. “No one is in essence trying to take over another’s land, but one should not make the mistake of taking the communities property along with them” as the native folks will always maintain.

“Obiageli! Obiageli!!” Odumodu thundered twice in quick successions. When he calls, it was as good as when a lion roars.

“Nná ànyi, I am coming.” came Obiageli's reply from outside his hut.

Odumodu is sitting on the elevated portion of his hut that serves as bed. He was still feeling the full potency of Ukpala’s palm wine. Nwakibe and Ukpala, his two friends, had cleverly left him the last pour from the palm wine keg they had earlier drank together. He certainly did not see them wink mischievously at each other, as he gently stirred the palm wine keg in order to make a pour. Nwakibe was the one who winked. He took a swallow from his drinking horn in order to suppress the laughter in him. Ukpala had a mischievous grin to his face as he simply went on stroking on his moustache while at the same time, he made a throaty cough; as if to clear his throat Odumodu is just too sensitive to jokes like this. He wasn't one to be cajoled with such things.

The last pour essentially contains the concentrated sedimented properties that is believed to make the palm wine what it really is. This part of the Palmwine have overtime been observed to be the most potent of the entire liquor. It is usually reserved for the oldest among the drinking party or “the one with a job in hand”. When the natives talks about “one with a job in hand”, they are necessarily referring to a man who had recently gotten for himself a wife. This part of the liquor is believed to improve a man's stamina and sexual urge, while at the same time sustain his erection for a little while longer.

Odumodu was truly “a man with a job in hand”. He had recently married for himself a third wife. Obiageli had barely turned 17 years old when Odumodu began indicating interest. Odumodu is by every parameter a rich man. He is a titled man and he equally owns a very large yam barn. His wealth covers him well enough that he hardly bothers to go to the farm. He engages more in sharecropping. He had assisted Obiageli’s father to start his own farm after he had nearly lost everything to a bushfire. The best way to repay him for his kindness was to offer his daughter as wife. This will therefore further strengthened the bond of friendship between them. What better way is it to seal a bond other than by marriage? Titled men with enough money can always get what they want; not minding the level of clandestine arm twisting involved.

“Obiageli!” Odumodu called again. His penis was growing increasingly impatient. There was indeed no better time to ask for a copulation other than now. The conditions were indeed just perfect. The weather is cool. The sun had been wrestled out of the sky. Rain clouds were noticeably in the sky. And fresh sweet breeze were streaming in from outside.

“Obiageli!” Odumodu called again for the third time.

“Nná ányi, I’m coming. I am almost through” replied Obiageli form outside still.

“Ñkitâ làshá ùñú gí ébà (May dog kiss you on the mouth)” Odumodu cursed in anger. “if I come and meet you there, you will not like it.”

“Nná ányi, bikó éwé nwé (please don’t be offended). I’m almost there”.

Soon, Obiageli was in his hut. She was carrying a bowl of pounded yam on one hand, and a bowl of vegetable soup on the other.

“Whenever one is calling, I don't understand why you women will hear the call, and yet choose to remain where you are. You are supposed to leave whatsoever it is that you’re doing and come quickly to answer the call. You never can tell when one could be in deer need of a help. You women always think that everything is all about food. Food is obviously important, but it is definitely not all that a man needs.” Odumodu said. He was trying cleverly to substitute his earlier aggressive disposition to a more lighter and friendlier one. One does not get the best out of a woman in such a mood.

“Nná ànyi, I’m sorry. I was only trying to warm the soup to make it a little bit hotter: just the very way you like it.” Said Obiageli as she bend down to place the food before her husband.

Odumodu couldn’t help but to look through cleavage, into the center parting, in between her two succulent breasts, held together by a single strand of cloth tied up her back. The single strand of cloth is a piece of feminine clothing among the native women. It serves as bra to help hold up the breasts against their flip-flap movements.

The effect was instantaneous on Odumodu’s anatomy. His penis considered the sight to be a very threatening one, as it stood achingly charged in between his thighs. It was nodding like an angry man who is desperately restraining himself from deal decisively with the person who had caused him his anger.

Odumodu without an invitation, reached out with his right hand and slide downwards the strand of cloth that was covering her breast. Behold, the two cherries were standing in agile posture; as if to have their arms akimbo, while daring anyone to bring on whatever it is they may have against them. Her small nipples sitting like dwarf candles on two cup cakes pointed dead straight at him, as if to question his authority in the compound. In spite of having slid down the fairly tight strand of clothes around them, they had not moved neither did they changed posture. The confident nature of Obiageli’s breast further enraged Odumodu’s penis. If it could make sounds, the whole of Ugwunato could have converged in Odumodu compound to see what it is that is shouting. It was as if his penis had a separate heart from the rest of his body; for there were now two heart-like beats; one was obviously coming from the heart, while the other seems to be coming from his penis, but that of his penis seems loudest. The nods came in the same frequency and rhythm to the beats.

“Obiyé! Obim! Ori ákú Odumodu! My sweety sweety pawpaw!” Odumodu gushed over his young wife. “Please come and greet your husband now or are we quarrelling?”.

As Obiageli stepped closer, Odumodu’s penis just couldn’t maintain sanity anymore. It began, quite violently, to knock against the roof of his under-robe, in the very same way a dog will hit the roof of a restrictive cage. His body were all fully alert. His veins all seemed like they will detach themselves from underneath his flesh. Every passing moment increased the urge. It was just too indescribable.

When Obiageli was as close enough as decency permits, Odumodu grabbed her quite violently by both arms. In one fluidly movement, he had her lying flat on her back right on his bed. The move was so lightening fast that even Amadi, the best wrestler in all of the hilly communities, would have applauded at such a technique. Odumodu was so purpose minded that he cares nothing for the spilt vegetable soup Obiageli had unconsciously tripped over with her legs, in the cause of maneuvering her onto his bed. For all he cares, the soup and everything else can go to hell.

Without much ado, his penis, whose temperature was already way above normal, find his way into Obiageli’s vagina. They both went missionary. Odumodu had himself sandwiched in between Obiageli’s spread out legs, which in turn came to form a belt at the base of his black hairy buttock. Obiageli had both arms around Odumodu’s shoulder as if in a hug, while her husband had his own hands firmly gripping her by the shoulders; a little off her shoulder blade.

He had his face planted to the right side of her face as he heavily breathe out hot air down her neck. He had his strength at the upper half of his body helping to pin her down, while his waist rise and fall repeatedly in jerking yet pounding movements. Odumodu gave off throaty moans, while obiageli encouraged him at intervals by making sexual sounds.

Quite sooner than expected, Odumodu spilled his seeds on the inside of her and then off he went into an exhausting sleep, right on top of her.


Sex in the native African society is quite a very dicey issue for one two holistically talk about. Inasmuch as it is more or less relative, one cannot hide the fact that it affects the genders differently. Machismo is a societal word for excessive masculinity, however negative or positive it may be. It is considered normal and even applauded for a male to be free, expressive, as well as exploring with his own sexuality. Boys can freely talk about sex, laugh about sex, use foul language and even discuss passed sexual acts within the audible reach of their parents.

It is very strangely the direct opposite for female. For the girl child, chastity is considered a virtue. According to local folklores, “the greatest gift a woman can give to her husband on their wedding night, is the blood of her virginity”. It is considered outrightly indecent, and possibly a taboo in some enclaves, for girls to freely talk about sex, make jokes about sex or even discuss passed sexual acts; except of course, such discussions is with their mother. These discussions are in fact, discussed in private and words are carefully disguised to conceal their true meaning.

Sex start and end with the man. As a woman, you are not primarily expected to enjoy it. But to just live through it in the very same manner you go about every other female-oriented duties or responsibilities like taking care of children and cooking the food. Foreplays are only employed when there is the need to have the man charged up, and not when the both parties needs to put each other in the mood.

A woman must know how to balance her disposition towards sex. This is usually something only a mother could teach her daughters. One must know how to manage her excitement when engaged in the sexual act. Appearing too receptive could give off the impression of one who is loose; and a loose women are more generally suspected for promiscuity. On the other hand, appearing to be adamant in turn, discourages the man. This will consequently make him seek out someone else to help satisfy his sexual needs. Mastering these techniques could be the definitive factor between a good wife and a better one.

If one's husband isn't good in bed, it is very quite sufficiently regarded to be the wife’s fault. And in the case where he is great in bed, it is all solely to his own credit. One with a not-too-good husband must take it upon herself to seek out remedies and when his arrogant will not allow him adhere to recommendations/prescriptions, you have no choice but to continue to endure with him. Ironically, a non-performing wife can be conveniently substituted with another so long as one had the means by which to pay for the customary bride price which it most definitely entails.

Restrictive laws on extramarital affairs are always targeted at the female gender. Men can always cheat and their wives should be able to leave with the knowledge that their husband cheats. In traditional Igbo society, it is perceived to be very normal for a wife to go bring in a concubine for her husband or even marry one into the family strictly to serve her husband's sexual needs. But such is considered unthinkable the other way around; except in very rare cases where a man invites another male family member to come help him he pregnant his own wife owing to his own impotency. In such a scenario, the act is most certainly done very secretly. It is never celebrated, and not a word of it ever leaves the family.

The warriors of Umuagu poured into Ugwunato catching almost everyone indoor. They had all stay in door to wait out the imminent rain; the rain of which had taken too long to fall. They had all stayed indoor to prevent their mortal flesh from getting wet. They had all stayed indoor, and yet forgot to protect their own land.

The rain was coming and with it will their very existence be washed away from the surface of the earth. The rain was coming to soften the earth so their blood can flow even more freely. A rain that will conceal the tears in the eyes. A rain that will fall on Ugwunato and yet, will it stop along side her existence.
O’Ugwunato! How I wished you knew.


“A secret is of no use to a dying man”. Obike is standing tall over the man who had just murdered his wife; the beloved mother of his only child. The man was lying on his back to the ground. He was indeed a dying man. His face, as well as, every part of his body were covered in blood and dirt. Blood were streaming down his nose, and he as well had blood in his mouth.

The man had a large wood pointedly poking out of the side of his upper abdomen; directly below his left rib cage. He was exhausted, he was beaten and he was very definitely going to die but he was quite strangely, not in anyway afraid. He in fact, had a wicked grin to his face that went on to reveal his blood stained teeth.

“Look!” he said to Obike, who towers above him with a machete in hand. This was his very first words to anyone since the beginning of the operation. He had not spoken nor had he opened his mouth since the palm frond had it sealed. Now, whatsoever it is that he was going to say, were definitely going to be his last words. Like a dying man preparing himself for the afterlife, it is his wish that those words will at least save someone’s life.

His eyes glowed in delight to what it is he was looking at. He was definitely enjoying what he was seeing. Curiosity had Obike steal a glance skywards. What he had mistook for rain clouds were actually not clouds. They were in fact smoke; heavy smoke. Evidently coming in the direction of his village; from his beloved Ugwunato, the very land of his fathers. They were certainly land of his fathers no more.
“Ugwunato has fallen!” the dying man said, as Obike brought back his attention to him. Obike was scared now that even the dying man could sense it. It somehow amused him even more. Obike was scared for fate of his beloved fatherland. He was scared for his beloved mother he had just left behind. He was scared for the many children that were already dying right now, and for the women that are getting raped. He silently offered a prayer for their soul.

“Take your sons and go off to a far land and there, start a new life; for the Ugwunato of your birth is no more”. The dying man was evidently in great pains as he struggled to say the words. Talking slowly and more distant as life continues to gradually drain out of him.

Obike felt no form of pity for him or for his smaller fellow, who he had had his head completely separated from the rest of his body when he had ventured into the taller elephant grasses in search of the crying baby. Obike had unfortunately gotten there before him. He just stood back and waited for him to come within striking distance.

“Go! Go! Gooooooooo!” said the man as he faded off to death.

THE END OF PART ONE. WATCH OUT FOR PART TWO.

EPILOGUE


Ugwunato fell and was burnt to the ground.

Obike in grief left Ugwunato for a far off land. There was no point going back to check on things himself. He will be risking his own life; upon which the survival of his newly born son (Ozoemena) depends.

Aniebolam went with Obike after all was laid bear to him. He was not too young to understand. He cried for his mother and his only brother Uzoma. With the soil of his once-upon-a-time land in his hands, he swore to return someday with a consuming vengeance.

Odumodu was murdered in bed while still with his wife.

Obiageli was raped multiple times before one of the warriors compassionately put her out of her misery by driving a knife into her heart. She bled to death.

Mama did not survive the invasion. She was slaughtered sitting next to her mortar as she prepares dinner for Obike her son who went in search of his wife.

Aniebolam’s Mother and Uzoma by the stroke of divine providence, both survived the invasion. They were forcefully marched to Umuagu and there, they were dedicated to an Alusi (Deity). They automatically became Osu (outcasts).

Nwakibe survived the invasion. He was lucky to escape servitude together with Adanma (Ukpala’s wife) in the course of their forced March to Umuagu. They both married each other and started life anew.

FOR THE STORY OF WHAT BECAME OF OBIKE, ANIEBOLAM and OZOEMENA, PLEASE STAY GLUED TO THIS PAGE. FEEL FREE TO LIKE AND SHARE MY POSTS. DO WELL TO RECOMMEND ME TO SOMEONE ELSE. YOUR COMMENTS AND CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISMS ARE ALL WELCOMED.

LASTLY, IT WOULDN'T BE BAD TO GET RECOMMENDED FOR THE JANUARY, 2019 LITERATURE AWARD ON NAIRALAND. PLEASE DO WELL TO VOTE FOR YOUR HUMBLE FRIEND. ���

Wow nice story..

Too bad for Ugwunato

Well done OP

O ga oooo

Interesting.. Well done Adekunle0000

Well done OP.

Nice work.

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Nice! When will part 2 start?