I know of an old man who lived the life of a Nigerian comedy script; he smelled like wet tobacco drying under a hot sun. His teeth, like the thatched roofing of his wife’s kitchen, were shades of black and brown. He lived in an obscure village in the rural areas of south-east Nigeria which he claimed was a G.R.A because of its calmness and serenity. The old man hardly complained of a difficult village life. He rarely complained at all. He believed that life was to be enjoyed despite all odds. So, every day, he looked forward to tapping his palm trees, playing coupon and making love to his wife.
I once read a book by Ernest Hemingway titled The Old Man and The Sea, and I compared the two. Hemingway’s old man was tenacious but the old man I know would not even try. His old man conquered, creating a powerful self, but the old man I know would rather tell such stories than live them.
So, he lived in his home, a yellow and red bungalow his son erected for him in a large compound that seemed to be swallowed by trees. Every morning, after he had woken up, he would take a long chewing stick, a tobacco cup, a raffia climbing rope, a cutlass, and a keg to go tap his wine. He would climb his palm trees in a stealthy way so he could savour the sights of unaware naked women bathing. When he was satisfied, he would begin humming his Biafran war songs as he watched the women cover themselves with wrappers and shame.
After working on the palm, he’d sit in his obi*, humming by a bucket of water, a basin with palm wine, and a red cup. He would take a sip, smacking his lips delightfully, and then call her; his blood and dear to his heart.
“Nyerenwa, come and drink!”
A chubby girl of ten years appeared, smiling. She drank from a full cup and asked for more.
“Ada nkwu elu*, won’t you get drunk?” he asked smiling as he gave her another full cup.
Her mother’s voice rang from outside; she was warning her not to drink too much.
“Our people can’t get drunk, that’s why we’re called Umuańuo,” she replied to the old man, licking her lips. “Besides,” she continued with a bit more emphasis, “Papa I am the only one that makes wine for you.”
The old man smiled. “Bring the water,” he requested.
She handed him the bucket, whose content he poured into the basin. He dipped the cup and stirred. He drank it and then looked at her. From the look, she quickly knew.
“Papa, it is ruined, isn’t it?”
He smiled and said, “Go and bring the basket!” as he scratched his nose.
She hurried out and reappeared with a basket full of black nylons. She dropped it down and busied herself searching, her eyes as busy as her hands. She handed the needed nylon to him. He untied it and emptied the content into the basin while she stirred the wine with the cup. She took a sip and frowned. Her eyes became wide. He took the cup and confirmed. The wine was still tasteless because the sugar was not enough.
He gave her a hundred Naira note without uttering a word and she left his obi. When she returned, she held a bag that hid two bottles of Sprite. They emptied the liquid, stirred and drank. This time she didn’t frown.
“Papa, do we add small white powder to enhance the colour?” she asked.
“No nwam*, this will do.” He loved her cleverness and the powder trick was her invention.
They filled the kegs with the wine, and she carried them to his bicycle. A great secret for a great sale on a great market day. A secret and duty they both shared. A secret she would always remember.
“Ahia oma*, good luck.” She added, “Buy bananas for me.”
He smiled as he peddled away. He always bought bananas. She was so much a child to keep reminding him.
The old man was anything but good-looking. Much worse, he was bald. The villagers often compared his head to the egg of a bush fowl and his ears to that of a wild deer. He was literate and intelligent nonetheless, claiming to have gotten his intelligence from reading books and eating fish brain. He was the secretary of his village council. In his language, it was called a book writer. His main duty was writing minutes of every meeting as well as sitting beside Nna Jonathan; the council president. It gave him and other executives the privilege to have the biggest share of food and money during wedding and burial ceremonies including other popular Owu* festival.
He was among the few literate old men in Umuańuo, though he was more outspoken than the others. During council meetings, he wrote the minutes in plain English and didn’t spell some words correctly. When the gathering flared up with boiling tempers and he lost track of what he was writing, he wrote in his large brown papered notebook the following:
Hyginus: harsh, harsh, he is shouting at Igbozurike.
Nna Jonathan: kalming everybody down.
Amadi Ekemma: sitting still like a slender poisonous snake. Tufia*!
This old man cursed a lot in his language; no one was spared from his diseased tongue as his wife called it, not even Nyerenwa. Not even his goats nor his wife’s fowls.
“May Iyafor* strike your stomach. May Ezeala* twist your neck. May Amadioha* blow ashes into your eyes.”
He prayed to God to forgive him his sins every night. The old man prayed like a child reciting the same news report to God. It took him several hours.
“God our Father,” he would say, somewhere in the middle of his prayers, “Remember chief Akubatas son that left for Spain 12 years ago, nobody has heard from him.”
He would pause, grind his teeth, making a symphony with the crickets outside in the dark.
“May we hear from him. Amen.”
Eventually, he prayed for all.
“All the boys, girls, men and women in Umuanuo, in Ifakala, in Imo state, in Nigeria, in Africa. In fact, uwa niile*… Ave Maria.” Then he would bow his head chanting amen.
After his prayers, he hit the cemented floor with his slippers.
“Gbooaa… Gbooaa…” he shouted as well. Perhaps so thieves would think that he still had his Biafran rifle.
****
As nature remains an undefeated force that fosters change, the old man became weak several years later. There was no delight in his former pleasures. He no longer tapped nor drank wine. His hands weren’t strong enough, but his voice was. He couldn’t sniff tobacco as well. The doctors strictly advised against it. Indeed, when you grow old, you understand the journey as the Igbos say. At times, Nyerenwa would secretly buy tobacco and bring to him. He wouldn’t know what he would have done without her. She became a constant companion who could sit all day listening to his unending stories and adventures.
“Mount Everest is in Nepal, Papa!” She shouted one evening beside him on his bed of rusty iron bunk.
“Which one is Nepal?” he hissed, “Come this child, I was taught in standard six that mountain Everest is in America.”
“Let me teach you!” he continued, “Listen to me carefully.”
“Teacher, don’t teach me nonsense!” she sang, rolling her eyes.
“Me? Nonsense?” he inquired, with his hands on his chest.
She laughed, “Papa, tell me about Christopher Columbus again.”
He launched into the story. He told her about the Biafran war, about his life in Kalabari, his youth, his exuberance, his women, and his mistresses.
“Diana? Kai! She is a mermaid.”
“Why didn’t you marry her?”
“She ran off with a Nigerian soldier, I never saw her again,” he replied wistfully.
“Good for her,” she snapped her fingers. “Thank God you married mama.”
“Yes, but I don’t think your grandma feels the same way,” he whispered to her ear. They both laughed.
****
Nyerenwa went to a boarding school. The old man only saw her during the school holidays. Seasons became hot yet he couldn’t find warmth in them. Life was now a repeating process. One time, she came home with a friend from school and the old man’s eyes came alive at the sight of the girl.
“Nwam, you are slender and sagacity. Not like Nyerenwa your friend who is no different from a pot of water.”
The girl laughed while Nyerenwa rolled her eyes.
“Papa, what is sagacity?”
“He meant to say sexy, this village man,” Nyerenwa replied, hissed and walked out.
The old man muttered to the girl about a pot of water that lives in a school and has the body of someone that stays at home.
****
Years passed by, like seasons of roasted corns and ash painted pears. The old man remembered the days of palm wines, council meetings and coupon papers turned to one of eye drops, tablets and hospital appointment. He had a stroke.
“Papa, you can’t die,” she blurted after feeding him.
“Not yet,” he smiled then continued, “I must see my in-laws at least. I must drink their wine.”
****
The old man died two years later. Two weeks after her eighteenth birthday, Nyerenwa came home from her workplace. The house was flooded with people. She became tensed but kept her cool, greeted those nearby and headed inside. There were more people inside. Immediately, she flung her bag and headed towards his room. A hand restrained her by the shoulder, but she pushed free and went in. He was there like always, on his bed, only that he was completely wrapped, a large cement block on each of his leg. The room reeked of kerosene.
“Come out, the ambulance will soon be here!” someone said.
She ran out, straight to her room. Someone followed her.
“Nyerenwa, hold your heart.”
“Go away!” she fired at that the person.
“O sorry,” the person replied with sarcasm.
She squeezed her pillow. She hated to cry. She hated him. He should have waited for her to come back. She fed him before she left and told him to stay strong till she returned.
“You said you won’t… till they come… You said. You said you would wait!” She was sobbing now. Her throat itched painfully.
“They are chanting Oro!” came a voice from outside.
She stood up, wiping her eyes.
“Who gave birth? What child was born?” came another voice.
Nyerenwa went out to listen. She needed to listen. The house was gravely silent.
Omuru gini o?
Omuru nwoke o
Anyi na azu, Anyi na anu o
Anyi na mmanya nkwu elu o
Her eyes welled up. He kept his promise. He never left her.
“Ojah has reincarnated. Adaku gave birth to a boy!” said a woman arriving.
The crowd cheered.
Away from them, alone in her thoughts, staring at nothing, Nyerenwa stood still. After a while, she smiled.
“Thank you, papa,” she whispered, “for keeping your promise. For coming back as a kinsman to drink my wine. Thank you nwannam*.”
Edited by Mapolo Suzawaka Umpatili
Glossary
Ahia oma – Good luck with your sales
Nwam – My child
Owu – Masquerade dance
Tufia – A curse to express anger or irritation
Uwa niile – The whole world.
Nwannam – My kinsman
Ada nkwu elu – Daughter of palm trees
Obi – Sitting room
Iyafor, Ezeala, Amdioha – Traditional gods
Photo Credits @Google
About The Author:
Venus Chinonyerem Asoka is a poet and a short writer from the Igbo tribe of Nigeria. She is in her late teens and is currently studying Genetics and Biotechnology at the University of Calabar.
Her works have been published in an online journal, blogs and several anthologies. She enjoys her own company by reading, writing and listening to music. She is aspiring to be a renowned prolific African writer.
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There was so much joy in reading this. So so much.
Nice one darling
Thanks sir