Arrow of God Read online

  ‘Are these not the people I saw going to the stream before the sun went down?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nwafo. ‘They went to Nwangene.’

  ‘I see.’ Ezeulu had forgotten temporarily that the nearer stream, Ota, had been abandoned since the oracle announced yesterday that the enormous boulder resting on two other rocks at its source was about to fall and would take a softer pillow for its head. Until the alusi who owned the stream and whose name it bore had been placated no one would go near it.

  Still, Ezeulu thought, he would speak his mind to whoever brought him a late supper tonight. If they knew they had to go to Nwangene they should have set out earlier. He was tired of having his meal sent to him when other men had eaten and forgotten.

  Obika’s great, manly voice rose louder and louder into the night air as he approached home. Even his whistling carried farther than some men’s voices. He sang and whistled alternately.

  ‘Obika is returning,’ said Nwafo.

  ‘The night bird is early coming home today,’ said Ezeulu, at the same time.

  ‘One day soon he will see Eru again,’ said Nwafo, referring to the apparition Obika had once seen at night. The story had been told so often that Nwafo imagined he was there.

  ‘This time it will be Idemili or Ogwugwu,’ said Ezeulu with a smile, and Nwafo was full of happiness.

  *

  About three years ago Obika had rushed into the obi one night and flung himself at his father shivering with terror. It was a dark night and rain was preparing to fall. Thunder rumbled with a deep, liquid voice and flash answered flash.

  ‘What is it, my son?’ Ezeulu asked again and again, but Obika trembled and said nothing.

  ‘What is it, Obika?’ asked his mother, Matefi, who had run into the obi and was now shaking worse than her son.

  ‘Keep quiet there,’ said Ezeulu. ‘What did you see, Obika?’

  When he had cooled a little Obika began to tell his father what he had seen at a flash of lightning near the ugili tree between their village, Umuachala, and Umunneora. As soon as he had mentioned the place Ezeulu had known what it was.

  ‘What happened when you saw It?’

  ‘I knew it was a spirit; my head swelled.’

  ‘Did he not turn into the Bush That Ruined Little Birds? On the left?’

  His father’s confidence revived Obika. He nodded and Ezeulu nodded twice. The other women were now ranged round the door.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Taller than any man I know.’ He swallowed a lump. ‘His skin was very light… like… like…’

  ‘Was he dressed like a poor man or was it like a man of great wealth?’

  ‘He was dressed like a wealthy man. He had an eagle’s feather in his red cap.’

  His teeth began to knock together again.

  ‘Hold yourself together. You are not a woman. Had he an elephant tusk?’

  ‘Yes. He carried a big tusk across his shoulder.’

  The rain had now begun to fall, at first in big drops that sounded like pebbles on the thatch.

  ‘There is no cause to be afraid, my son. You have seen Eru, the Magnificent, the One that gives wealth to those who find favour with him. People sometimes see him at that place in this kind of weather. Perhaps he was returning home from a visit to Idemili or the other deities. Eru only harms those who swear falsely before his shrine.’ Ezeulu was carried away by his praise of the god of wealth. The way he spoke one would have thought he was the proud priest of Eru rather than Ulu who stood above Eru and all the other deities. ‘When he likes a man wealth flows like a river into his house; his yams grow as big as human beings, his goats produce threes and his hens hatch nines.’

  Matefi’s daughter, Ojiugo, brought in a bowl of foofoo and a bowl of soup, saluted her father and set them before him. Then she turned to Nwafo and said: ‘Go to your mother’s hut; she has finished cooking.’

  ‘Leave the boy alone,’ said Ezeulu who knew that Matefi and her daughter resented his partiality for his other wife’s son. ‘Go and call your mother for me.’ He made no move to start eating and Ojiugo knew there was going to be trouble. She went back to her mother’s hut and called her.

  ‘I don’t know how many times I have said in this house that I shall not eat my supper when every other man in Umuaro is retiring to sleep,’ he said as soon as Matefi came in. ‘But you will not listen. To you whatever I say in this house is no more effective than the fart a dog breaks to put out a fire…’

  ‘I went all the way to Nwangene to fetch water and…’

  ‘If you like you may go to Nkisa. What I am saying is that if you want that madness of yours to be cured, bring my supper at this time another day…’

  When Ojiugo came to collect the bowls she found Nwafo polishing off the soup. She waited for him to finish, full of anger. Then she gathered the bowls and went to tell her mother about it. This was not the first time or the second or third. It happened every day.

  ‘Do you blame a vulture for perching over a carcass?’ said Matefi. ‘What do you expect a boy to do when his mother cooks soup with locust beans for fish? She saves her money to buy ivory bracelets. But Ezeulu will never see anything wrong in what she does. If it is me then he knows what to say.’

  Ojiugo was looking towards the other woman’s hut which was separated from theirs by the whole length of the compound. All she could see was the yellowish glow of the palm oil lamp between the low eaves and the threshold. There was a third hut which formed a half moon with the other two. It had belonged to Ezeulu’s first wife, Okuata, who died many years ago. Ojiugo hardly knew her; she only remembered she used to give a piece of fish and some locust beans to every child who went to her hut when she was making her soup. She was the mother of Adeze, Edogo and Akueke. After her death her children lived in the hut until the girls married. Then Edogo lived there alone until he married two years ago and built a small compound of his own besides his father’s. Now Akueke had been living in the hut again since she left her husband’s house. They said the man ill-treated her. But Ojiugo’s mother said it was a lie and that Akueke was headstrong and proud, the kind of woman who carried her father’s compound into the house of her husband.

  Just when Ojiugo and her mother were about to begin their meal, Obika came home singing and whistling.

  ‘Bring me his bowl,’ said Matefi. ‘He is early today.’

  Obika stooped at the low eaves and came in hands first. He saluted his mother and she said ‘Nno’ without any warmth. He sat down heavily on the mud-bed. Ojiugo had brought his soup bowl of fired clay and was now bringing down his foofoo from the bamboo ledge. Matefi blew into the soup bowl to remove dust and ash and ladled soup into it. Ojiugo set it before her brother and went outside to bring water in a gourd.

  After the first swallow Obika tilted the bowl of soup towards the light and inspected it critically.

  ‘What do you call this, soup or cocoyam porridge.’

  The women ignored him and went on with their own interrupted meal. It was clear he had drunk too much palm wine again.

  Obika was one of the handsomest young men in Umuaro and all the surrounding districts. His face was very finely cut and his nose stood gem, like the note of a gong. His skin was, like his father’s, the colour of terracotta. People said of him (as they always did when they saw great comeliness) that he was not born for these parts among the Igbo people of the forests; that in his previous life he must have sojourned among the riverain folk whom the Igbo called Olu.

  But two things spoilt Obika. He drank palm wine to excess, and he was given to sudden and fiery anger. And being as strong as rock he was always inflicting injury on others. His father who preferred him to Edogo, his quiet and brooding half-brother, nevertheless said to him often: ‘It is praiseworthy to be brave and fearless, my son, but sometimes it is better to be a coward. We often stand in the compound of a coward to point at the ruins where a brave man used to live. The man who has never submitted to anything will soon subm
it to the burial mat.’

  But for all that Ezeulu would rather have a sharp boy who broke utensils in his haste than a slow and careful snail.

  Not very long ago Obika had come very close indeed to committing murder. His half-sister, Akueke, often came home to say that her husband had beaten her. One early morning she came again with her face all swollen. Without waiting to hear the rest of the story Obika set out for Umuogwugwu, the village of his brother-in-law. On the way he stopped to call his friend, Ofoedu, who was never absent from the scene of a fight. As they approached Umuogwugwu Obika explained to Ofoedu that he must not help in beating Akueke’s husband.

  ‘Why have you called me then?’ asked the other, angrily. ‘To carry your bag?’

  ‘There may be work for you. If Umuogwugwu people are what I take them to be they will come out in force to defend their brother. Then there will be work for you.’

  No one in Ezeulu’s compound knew where Obika had gone until he returned a little before noon with Ofoedu. On their heads was Akueke’s husband tied to a bed, almost dead. They set him down under the ukwa tree and dared anyone to move him. The women and the neighbours pleaded with Obika and showed him the threatening ripe fruit on the tree, as big as water pots.

  ‘Yes. I put him there on purpose, to be crushed by the fruit – the beast.’

  Eventually the commotion brought Ezeulu, who had gone into the near-by bush, hurrying home. When he saw what was happening he wailed a lament on the destruction Obika would bring to his house and ordered him to release his in-law.

  For three markets Ibe could barely rise from his bed. Then one evening his kinsmen came to seek satisfaction from Ezeulu. Most of them had gone out to their farms when it had all happened. For three markets and more they had waited patiently for someone to explain why their kinsman should be beaten up and carried away.

  ‘What is this story we hear about Ibe?’ they asked.

  Ezeulu tried to placate them without admitting that his son had done anything seriously wrong. He called his daughter, Akueke, to stand before them.

  ‘You should have seen her the day she came home. Is this how you marry women in your place? If it is your way then I say you will not marry my daughter like that.’

  The men agreed that Ibe had stretched his arm too far, and so no one could blame Obika for defending his sister.

  ‘Why do we pray to Ulu and to our ancestors to increase our numbers if not for this thing?’ said their leader. ‘No one eats numbers. But if we are many nobody will dare molest us, and our daughters will hold their heads up in their husbands’ houses. So we do not blame Obika too much. Do I speak well?’ His companions answered yes and he continued.

  ‘We cannot say that your son did wrong to fight for his sister. What we do not understand, however, is why a man with a penis between his legs should be carried away from his house and village. It is as if to say: You are nothing and your kinsmen can do nothing. This is the part we do not understand. We have not come with wisdom but with foolishness because a man does not go to his in-law with wisdom. We want you to say to us: You are wrong; this is how it is or that is how it is. And we shall be satisfied and go home. If someone says to us afterwards: Your kinsman was beaten up and carried away; we shall know what to reply. Our great in-law, I salute you.’

  Ezeulu employed all his skill in speaking to pacify his in-laws. They went home happier than they came. But it was hardly likely that they would press Ibe to carry palm wine to Ezeulu and ask for his wife’s return. It looked as if she would live in her father’s compound for a long time.

  *

  When he finished his meal Obika joined the others in Ezeulu’s hut. As usual Edogo spoke for all of them. As well as Obika, Oduche and Nwafo were there also.

  ‘Tomorrow is Afo,’ said Edogo, ‘and we have come to find out what work you have for us.’

  Ezeulu thought for a while as though he was unprepared for the proposal. Then he asked Obika how much of the work on his new homestead was still undone.

  ‘Only the woman’s barn,’ he replied. ‘But that could wait. There will be no cocoyam to put into it until harvest time.’

  ‘Nothing will wait,’ said Ezeulu. ‘A new wife should not come into an unfinished homestead. I know such a thing does not trouble the present age. But as long as we are there we shall continue to point out the right way… Edogo, instead of working for me tomorrow take your brothers and the women to build the barn. If Obika has no shame, the rest of us have.’

  ‘Father, I have a word to say.’ It was Oduche.

  ‘I am listening.’

  Oduche cleared his throat as if he was afraid to begin.

  ‘Perhaps they are forbidden to help their brothers build a barn,’ said Obika thickly.

  ‘You are always talking like a fool,’ Edogo snapped at him. ‘Has Oduche not worked as hard as yourself on your homestead? I should say harder.’

  ‘It is Oduche I am waiting to hear,’ said Ezeulu, ‘not you two jealous wives.’

  ‘I am one of those they have chosen to go to Okperi tomorrow and bring the loads of our new teacher.’

  ‘Oduche!’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Listen to what I shall say now. When a handshake goes beyond the elbow we know it has turned to another thing. It was I who sent you to join those people because of my friendship to the white man, Wintabota. He asked me to send one of my children to learn the ways of his people and I agreed to send you. I did not send you so that you might leave your duty in my household. Do you hear me? Go and tell the people who chose you to go to Okperi that I said no. Tell them that tomorrow is the day on which my sons and my wives and my son’s wife work for me. Your people should know the custom of this land; if they don’t you must tell them. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Go and call your mother for me. I think it is her turn to cook tomorrow.’

  Chapter Two

  Ezeulu often said that the dead fathers of Umuaro looking at the world from Ani-Mmo must be utterly bewildered by the ways of the new age. At no other time but now could Umuaro have taken war to Okperi in the circumstances in which they did. Who would have imagined that Umuaro would go to war so sorely divided? Who would have thought that they would disregard the warning of the priest of Ulu who originally brought the six villages together and made them what they were? But Umuaro had grown wise and strong in its own conceit and had become like the little bird, nza, who ate and drank and challenged his personal god to single combat. Umuaro challenged the deity which laid the foundation of their villages. And – what did they expect? – he thrashed them, thrashed them enough for today and for tomorrow!

  In the very distant past, when lizards were still few and far between, the six villages – Umuachala, Umunneora, Umuagu, Umuezeani, Umuogwugwu and Umuisiuzo – lived as different peoples, and each worshipped its own deity. Then the hired soldiers of Abam used to strike in the dead of night, set fire to the houses and carry men, women and children into slavery. Things were so bad for the six villages that their leaders came together to save themselves. They hired a strong team of medicine-men to install a common deity for them. This deity which the fathers of the six villages made was called Ulu. Half of the medicine was buried at a place which became Nkwo market and the other half thrown into the stream which became Mili Ulu. The six villages then took the name of Umuaro, and the priest of Ulu became their Chief Priest. From that day they were never again beaten by an enemy. How could such a people disregard the god who founded their town and protected it? Ezeulu saw it as the ruin of the world.

  On the day, five years ago, when the leaders of Umuaro decided to send an emissary to Okperi with white clay for peace or new palm frond for war, Ezeulu spoke in vain. He told the men of Umuaro that Ulu would not fight an unjust war.

  ‘I know,’ he told them, ‘my father said this to me that when our village first came here to live the land belonged to Okperi. It was Okperi who gave us a piece of their land to live in. They also gave
us their deities – their Udo and their Ogwugwu. But they said to our ancestors – mark my words – the people of Okperi said to our fathers: We give you our Udo and our Ogwugwu; but you must call the deity we give you not Udo but the son of Udo, and not Ogwugwu but the son of Ogwugwu. This is the story as I heard it from my father. If you choose to fight a man for a piece of farmland that belongs to him I shall have no hand in it.’

  But Nwaka had carried the day. He was one of the three people in all the six villages who had taken the highest title in the land, Eru, which was called after the lord of wealth himself. Nwaka came from a long line of prosperous men and from a village which called itself first in Umuaro. They said that when the six villages first came together they offered the priesthood of Ulu to the weakest among them to ensure that none in the alliance became too powerful.

  ‘Umuaro kwenu!’ Nwaka roared.

  ‘Hem!’ replied the men of Umuaro.

  ‘Kwenu!’

  ‘Hem!’

  ‘Kwezuenu!’

  ‘Hem!’

  He began to speak almost softly in the silence he had created with his salutation.

  ‘Wisdom is like a goatskin bag; every man carries his own. Knowledge of the land is also like that. Ezeulu has told us what his father told him about the olden days. We know that a father does not speak falsely to his son. But we also know that the lore of the land is beyond the knowledge of many fathers. If Ezeulu had spoken about the great deity of Umuaro which he carries and which his fathers carried before him I would have paid attention to his voice. But he speaks about events which are older than Umuaro itself. I shall not be afraid to say that neither Ezeulu nor any other in this village can tell us about these events.’ There were murmurs of approval and of disapproval but more of approval from the assembly of elders and men of title. Nwaka walked forward and back as he spoke; the eagle feather in his red cap and bronze band on his ankle marked him out as one of the lords of the land – a man favoured by Eru, the god of riches.