Chapter 6: Chapter 6

He had varieties of crops, but the boys’ inquiring the choice for harvest left him stupefied. This was so as he had not made the decision from home, and he was not sure what the women would need. He thought it would be better if they harvested the cassava.

As he announced the choice variety, a thousand tubers came off the soil. He was very pleased. The boys did not let him filth his hands. He stood under a shed, admiring the energies of the young men as they see to the job. Soon, he started nodding to the rhythm of the song which they began to ease themselves of work stress. This was the only companion of a hard worker. It was through songs that one could fulfill a great task.

The boys filled their baskets and helped themselves in balancing the load on their head. They returned following the same sequence as they had come.

Njoku carried the mgbada even when dozens of the boys who had carried no basket with them offered to help. A child does not go emptyhanded when an elder was laden with load threatening to disfigure his neck. Njoku knew this philosophy but still would bear the weight.

He wrapped the mgbada across his shoulders, and as with the first time they set for the quest, he walked behind. Those who carried no basket picked some tubers. They buried their faces in the tubers for the fear of an elderly person rebuking them on the road.

The boys have sharp minds. If they went with empty hands, no elder would pass without making a bitter comment. There would have been a great relief if the elders imbibed the culture of asking before rebuking. But they would not ask why they let the elders to labor while they idled.

“Some elders preferred to do the work, and others rather ask little children. Njoku appeared to be in the class of those who preferred to get their hands on a job,” a boy said, but not all agreed. Soon, they would pass it as a topic of debate.

Some pointed to the fact he had stood idle all the while they were toiling in the farm. If he were to be in such rank, he would have engaged himself as well. A clever boy said he was, and went on to explain. He said they only preferred to do the work if it was the task they enjoyed. The boy likened Njoku to his own father who would not let any member of his household wash his clothes. That was the only thing he does for himself, and he believed nobody does it as perfectly as he did.

“Is it justifiable to say my father loves washing? If he does, how does he not wash the dishes as well as the flooring?” The boy asked. Most boys agreed with him, and the others still had their different perceptions.

Njoku was listening to the boy’s argument but did not make it obvious. He understood why the argument was about him. The clever boy’s point forced him into nodding thrice, but he thought he has heard enough. He began a song that forced them to abandon the argument as they had to respond. This was the kind of song the army sang in anticipation of victory, or when they reigned victorious in a battle. These war-lorn days, everyone sang it as a booster of morale, even within groups of enchanted youths.

“nzogbu-nzogbu”

The boys responded to every line, “enyi mba enyi”

“Nzogbu nwoke”

“Enyi mba enyi”

“Nzogbu nwanyi”

“Enyi mba enyi”

Njoku sang, trotting his dancing steps, and stamping his foot like a gallant warrior. He swung his arms as he gripped the fore and hind legs of the mgbada. He helped one to imagine the sight of a bird learning for the first time to flutter.

He has forgotten his age at once. Of course, it does no harm to stretch the ribs every once in a blue moon. Even the oldest man in the community would not help feeling like a young man when he hears the chorus.

It is obvious Njoku would need a warm water massage after, and a two-day leave from farm work. The boys also stamped their feet in rhythm to their response. They tried their best to produce the best valorous voice to display gallantry.

Njoku added more swagger as they matched across the flat rocks into their settlement. They began to grace the sights of onlookers who were wondering what the triumph was. When they did not see anything other than loaded baskets, their impatience won over them. The people wondered whether the boys were celebrating the harvest of cassava. The more impatient ones hissed and turned away after tossing their head to the song.

One man who was gathering hay abandoned his work to see for himself firsthand. The news carriers will still carry the news, but will first distort before dishing it out. The people always remodeled stories to their interest before selling to unfortunate ears. The man’s name was Akonuche. He stood out for his wisdom. When he saw the group of young men carrying cassava on their heads, he hissed and shook his head in disgust. Then, he began to imagine how energetic he was in his own youthful days. He thought he did better but did not go about the community causing an uproar for some baskets of cassava.

“These boys voice cuts into the clouds as if they threw the devil,” he said and began regretting leaving his job. About then, he saw Njoku from a distance, carrying something around his shoulders. When the vision became clearer, he could tell what bushmeat it was.

“Mgbada!” He exclaimed.

The might of the bushmeat amazed Akonuche that he joined in responding to the chorus. He was so overwhelmed that he forgot to mark his interest with Njoku who would soon remind him.

“Will you come to my house later?” Njoku asked between chorus. Even so, the boys did not break from the response.

“Forgive me, Nnam. I and my family are at your courtyard come dawn.”

His bewilderment lingered that he stood dumb as the party matched away. That was not the biggest game in the history of the community hunting life. But others who had caught games as big as Njoku’s were full-time hunters. They were in the ranks of the best marksmen. Now, Njoku was only an ordinary farmer who went to his farmland for harvest and ended up with such a big game.

Mgbada is not the animal one could catch with bare hands. It took a hunter armed with a good gun, lots of targeting to knock down one. One wrong target meant losing the game. The mgbada can hear the click of a trigger from faraway and will flee before the bullet gets to it.

Akonuche shrugged and resolved to find out how Njoku did it. If he has the trap, he could lease it, even if it meant paying him wages. In his own farmland, he had watched a good number of bushmeat dance kpo-kri-kpo under his nose.

“If I can get this trap,” he thought. “No day would pass that I would visit my farm without coming home with a game.”

He rushed back to his work to finish. There are signs there will be lots of goodies in Njoku’s yard, so he needed to make it on time. The big mgbada was a good assurance. He imagined his wives and children were already there.

“That is their job. They should go first to prepare the ground and the stomach business,” he said. As the thought about the food crossed his mind, he robbed his abdomen and smiled. The men has always been on the receiving side. Theirs were to go there and eat until their tummy stretches to burst. Sometimes their belly had to refuse taking more if their mouth refused to heed to warnings.

The party of farm boys began to arrive at Njoku’s courtyard. The gyration gained more momentum as they entered. They added a fine drama as they danced around the compound with the load on their head. They completed three circles before proceeding to the kitchen.

As if they had planned it beforehand, anyone who entered mimicked the act of the others. This stunned the women, and to some extent amused them. One woman in the kitchen made the comment that loosened the throats of the others. Everyone nursed their disgust in their heart. They have always learned their tongues the sense of reason. People shy from speaking up when it involved saying the truth which the ears detest. Let them not say it was this person from that household who said. This was an obvious pretense. Much as they fain not to poke into another man’s affairs, rumors and sad news spread like wildfire.

“All the men know is to eat until they grow tummy as big as of a pregnant woman, aside which, they are useless.” The woman said. She could not curtail the urge to talk as the boys kept coming into the kitchen to offload tubers of cassava.

“What was Njoku thinking?” Another woman asked. Of course, nobody had the answer. The third woman started calling Njoku’s wife.

“Ngo...”

“uh...” Ngozi responded at once. The call was certain unless the evil spirits meant her that day.

“Could you come closer, please?”

“Oo...” Ngozi responded and made for her kitchen. She was like a stranger in her own court. Everything she did by herself other days was what the woman does for her on this occasion.

“Aha! Here you are.”

“Yes, Nne, I am here. Hope no problem?”

“Not at all. Please tell me what we are to do with these tubers of cassava. Is it for today’s occasion or another in the future?”

All the women in the kitchen burst into laughter. It is either the woman’s question that amused them or the drama of the young boys. Ngozi did feel embarrassed.

“What caliber of grown-up man does not know that we have to ferment the cassava for several days before? Only Njoku my husband. This man acts like a baby most times. He does not know, and he will not consult anybody,” Ngozi spat her resentment. “Please don’t mind my husband’s foolishness. If you need the fermented cassava, I have a drum-full over there.”

Ngozi pointed to where the drum stool, but no one picked interest. They would not be needing it. Each woman came to the yard carrying one variety of food items or the other. It was uncivil to go to a neighbor’s courtyard to dine and leave her coffers empty. No one does that in the community. More offerings were still coming from different households. Ngozi was going to make a profit out of nothing. From the look of things, the food will remain even if they extended the generosity beyond. The items Ngozi produced were for ‘let them not say’ purpose. Except one wanted to hear the tale of the greedy hostess who banked on her guests to host them. No one will love to hear such a tale. The community telling the story was a bad omen. It meant the people carrying one on their lips for twelve moons. Aside in contrast to a person’s lifestyle, no one told the story.

The women’s topic had been Obiageli’s offering before the farm party returned. Obiageli and Ijeoma entered the yard carrying bunches of vegetables. From distance, they looked like pieces of rocks from which plants sprouted out. One of the women had made this observation and have had to forbid. Likening a person to an inanimate was an abomination and insult to the gods of creation. One must forbid such utterance or expect the wrath.

Some of the women began to speak of their personal arrangement with her. She had promised to teach them how to start their own garden. Every woman desired to have her vegetables ready in a place she could go and fetch them anytime. Instead of going about the length of the community looking from whom to borrow some.

“Nne, you have done it all for me. May our gods bless you. If only you have helped me in raising my own. You would not have bothered.”

“My friend, I have not forgotten. Nobody goes about teaching other people how best to raise a household when his very own rooftop was on fire. Such a person is as worse as the devil, and an enemy of the people. Will the gods do not turn their eyes away from him?”

Obiageli proceeded to tip her load and looked around to ask Ijeoma to do the same, but she has done and disappeared. Even so, Obiageli looked on, but could not set eyes on her. She shrugged with an expression that spelled, “anyways, today is your day.”

“Please, go on with what you are saying and allow this girl one moment,” Ngozi said as she nudged Obiageli.

“The time has come as I promised. You can see from the quality of vegetables I have here. If I was able to get these much, it means I have won the battle against the pests.”

Ngozi was happy to learn. She has been waiting to hear this for ages.

“When are we starting?” She asked.

“After we have rested from these lines of occasions.”

The atmosphere spread Ngozi’s happiness. The people inside the kitchen soon had an inkling of what was under discourse outside.

They took turns in saying, “Remember me Obiageli.”

Obiageli heard many voices in one time, and she did not know which to respond.

“I am all yours.”

She knew she cannot help every one of them in person. Those who encounter her would have to spread the good work. If so, everyone will feel her touch of goodness.

The women’s attention returned to what was going on within. They began to wonder about the boys’ new style of celebrating chastity. The boys were singing and stamping in a very high spirit. The women started to show to themselves their sons, and it soon became a source of great amusement.

“Look at that eriri-afo showing us his muscles,” a woman said. When they turned to see the person who made such a comment, they saw it was none but the boy’s mother. They laughed until their eyes began to stream tears.

“They could be celebrating victory over the tubers,” another woman said.

“How could they be celebrating without asking the credibility of their handwork?” Ngozi was still saying when Njoku entered. He still wrapped the mgbada around his shoulders. He danced around the courtyard as the others before dropping the bushmeat at the center. Everyone drew closer for a good view. The women hijacked the chorus and even began to dance. The might of the mgbada overwhelmed their hearts.

“Umu Ezzum kwenu,” Nwosu yelled.

“Ya.” The people responded in unison.

“I thank all the energetic young men who have come with me to the harvest,” he began as he achieved silence. “I can see my guests are already in their numbers waiting. You all will have to forgive me any way I have erred.”

“Umu Ezzum kwenu.”

“Ya.”

“You have all come well. I will enjoin everyone not to run away. You will have enough to eat today. I have plenty in store, please help me eat.”

Njoku threw a toast of a keg of palm wine to the boys. They would need it to cool off before they proceed to the butchery. The keg arrived soon, but there were not too many drinking gourds. They had only two available to them. This was why every man carried with him his personal drinking gourd to any occasion. The boys had no problem letting the two go around. It even became a source of fun to them, unlike the adults who will look at themselves with suspicion. As they drank, they got livelier and began chatting at the top of their voices. Some elders nodded to affirm the wine was a good one. They could see its manifestation in the young men.

Their discourse was about their adventure to the farm, and they had enough to laugh about. To everyone’s bewilderment, an old man sprang up and started to scream.

“Abomination, Njoku...”

The man’s voice puzzled everyone. Even Njoku could not comprehend. The old man went on to explain, pointing to Njoku.

“This is a sacrilege. You slew a bush animal that posed no struggle.”

At this point, many people began to see the sense in the old man’s rash. Njoku sank in himself. He began to regret everything, even going to the farm in the first instance. He could not have known. This was his first game in his entire lifetime. He has never thought that even hunting the wildlife had sets of rudiments.