The Village

The River Niger flows through my village in Delta State, from its source in far away Guinea, very close to my grandma`s miniature four bedroom cottage in Ashaka.

I have no recollection of my first visit to Ashaka or of my grandpa who died soon after. I was only a few months old. My mother recounts the circumstances surrounding his death in one simple sentence ''It was after he carried you that he died''. I imagine him picking me up, handing me over to my mother and immediately dropping down dead. Making me the world`s youngest murder suspect.

I was 4 years old on our next visit. One morning, we were roused by Grandma`s shrill voice. She was in an argument with my mother, and as they were speaking in our local dialect, which we did not understand, we had no idea what the ruckus was about or how it was to affect us. Grandma, having won, immediately shepherded my older brother, my younger sister and myself out of the house. Clad only in matching multi-coloured cotton towels tied tightly around our fragile waists, we went gleefully past the guava tree with the yellowing fruits in front of a mud house, by the fenced compound with the barking dog, down the narrow steep decline bordered by cocoa yam plants. A short while later, we arrived at our destination, the river.

At first glance it looked like a huge grayish-black blanket, motionless and soft, but as we got closer we noticed that it was moving swiftly in one direction. It was so wide that it was impossible to see the huge trees which marked the beginning of the forest on the other side. We were excited and anxious at the same time as it was our first time near a large body of water.

It was not surprising to see a large number of people as the river provided an abundant source of water in a town with no other alternative. Almost everything was done here. It was alive with voices talking, singing, yelling, crying and birds cawing in the distance. It smelled strongly of fish, wet grass and the sweet fragrance of Lux soap and Omo detergent. We trailed closely behind Grandma. She called out a greeting to a thin woman who was singing loudly as she washed a heap of clothes by the river bank, waved at an old lady who seemed to be standing right in the middle of the dark water. We stopped to chat with a relative, who patted our heads and pulled our cheeks fondly in greeting. Beside her was a young girl scrubbing a big black pot which was crying for freedom. We walked along the river bank and stopped when we finally spotted a free spot beside a large tree stump. 

We watched in awe as a group of naked kids, some as tiny as we were, dived fearlessly from the top of a fallen tree at the edge of the river. In the distance, a canoe with two passengers was slowly fading into the horizon. 

Grandma took off our towels, folded them neatly on the tree stump, asked my brother and I to wait as she picked up my sister and walked into the river. My sister screamed happily as she took her first dip and splashed around in the shallow end. But her excitement was short-lived as laughter was quickly replaced by tears as Grandma proceeded to give her a `proper` washing with the use of an awful smelling black soap and a rough-looking light brown sponge which is the fruit of plant native to West Africa. It is oblong and looks like a cucumber in shape, colour and size. It is left to dry while still hanging on the tree and only plucked when its colour changes to light brown, and generally used as a multi-purpose sponge.

My brother and I watched in horror as we awaited our turns. We were later to learn that Grandma had accused my mother of not bathing us thoroughly, of pampering our tough African skin with soft oyinbo sponges.

To be continued...