Dear Reader,
Happy New Year! Here is wishing you only the very best that the new year has to offer. We pray that 2015 will be better than its predecessor. Amin! That being said, I`m proud to say that my year is already working towards making that a reality.
I took up blogging in search of inspiration for a book I began to write a few years ago. Today, I believe that I have acquired enough ammunition to complete and publish it for your reading pleasure. That is the good news. The bad news is that my blogs will not be published fortnightly anymore. Instead, they will be once monthly.
I take this opportunity to thank you for reading my little stories.
Happy reading!
The sound of a cock crowing in the distance cut through the stillness of the morning, marking the dawn of a new day. The faint voices of passersby heading to the river hung thickly in the morning air. We snuggled deeper into our blankets as cold air drifted in through the cracks in the small wooden windows of the room we shared with our mother. A short while later, grandma could be heard shuffling around in the next room, prior to putting a kettle to boil on the stove for our morning tea. We would be woken up much later.
Each morning, as soon as it was warm enough, we strolled to the river for our morning baths while mother did our laundry a few metres away. The mouth-watering aroma of akara greeted us upon our return. We hurriedly rinsed our feet which were by now covered in reddish-brown sand, rushed into the bedroom and coated our skin with Stella Pomade. By the time we came out dressed in our usual flowery Ankara frocks, shirt and shorts for my brother, the three-legged wooden table at the centre of the small parlour was set with cups of hot Milo, thin slices of white bread, steaming bowls of brownish akamu with traces of delicious milk at the top, and a plate with several pieces of sumptuous akara. We quickly set to. Evenings we returned with plastic buckets which we filled with as much water as we could carry. By the time we climbed the steep steps and arrived home, most of the water had spilled out from the buckets which were balanced on our heads, held in place by both hands, and swayed dangerously from side to side with each furtive step. Our older cousins would eventually fill the two huge metal drums at the back of the house with water.
And so we settled into village life, playing boju-boju in the afternoons with the neighbours` kids. Before long we had lice dancing egwu-amala in our hair. One day grandma was combing our hair, fishing out lice eggs, crushing then between thumb and forefinger when all of a sudden she shrieked.
“Okirikpoto!”
She raced like an athlete to the back of the house and appeared almost immediately with a small stone, grabbed my brother, held him firmly between her thin thighs to discourage any attempts at escape. With the stone, she proceeded to gently scrape a round-shaped rash just behind his left ear, unmistakably ringworm, until it bled a little. Only then did she apply a little amount of potash powder at which my brother howled in pain. By the following evening, the infection had almost disappeared.
Evenings were spent lying on straw mats on the wide verandah in front of the house, as we listened to grandma and mother recount tales of days long gone, of people long dead. Like the story of the village town crier with six wives and nine children. One evening, two of the younger ones came down with a mysterious fever and by dawn were dead. The village oracle was consulted and it was revealed that the first wife was a witch and was responsible for "eating" her co-wives` kids because she had been unable to have any of her own. More drama unfolded when she was forced to confess. She revealed that she did not act alone, but that the pretty last wife, being a General at the coven of witches, received the largest portion. We did not sleep well that night.
One sunny afternoon after a heavy meal of pounded yam and catfish pepper soup prepared with fish caught that morning, my brother and me were asked to return the used dishes to the kitchen. For some reason, kitchens were not built as part of the main house, they were a separate structure usually directly behind the main building. Like an afterthought. My brother who was walking ahead of me stopped short suddenly at the entrance of the kitchen, gave a loud cry and bolted, dishes flying in all directions. I did not know what to do so I just stood there until he screamed my name. That was when I looked down. On the ground, blocking the entrance to the kitchen was a creature that resembled a lizard, if only lizards were as big as grandma`s goats. Fear catapulted me into action and I bolted after him. Grandma and mother rushed out. From a safe distance we watched wide-eyed, open-mouthed as they approached the huge greyish black lizard fearlessly and proceeded to lead it into the bushes at the back of the compound with a stick.
Awuu or Iguanas have been revered in my village for centuries. It is believed that during ancient tribal wars, they led our warriors to safety, protecting them from their enemies. It is a grave offense to harm them in any way and they roam around freely, a danger to no one. Years later, I was to come across one as long as 6 feet, crossing a major road majestically.
We did not set foot in the kitchen again until our next visit eleven years later.
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