MY PLACE OF BIRTH PART 1
Written by Gabriel Uko Onwu
In my little village, I had always looked forward to three great feasts well celebrated among my kinsmen.Our new Yam Festival (Igede Agba), Christmas and Easter. In each of these, I was sure my parents were going to buy a shirt, a pair of trousers and sandals or shoes for me. My Mum would always save enough money for this purpose. I was only denied these privileges once when I stoned Onayi for calling me her husband.Onayi was a beautiful girl in our village who grew faster than her age and when she clocked 13, some hungry bachelors had started besieging her Father’s compound for the same intention. She was jealously protected and had to be taken away to live with her tough Aunt in Calabar,one of the largest cities in our Country. Was I pleased to see her leave? If only I had understood the meaning of love at that time. I would rather not talk about it but if anything I owed her apologies and wish she was closer than ever. Time was when I would single out her voice among several voices of young girls rehearsing their latest tunes to grace each occasion. Each time I looked at her parting gift( a beautiful necklace embroidered with her name and mine), tears were far from drying up. Of course, that was when love was love but my naivety was at work.
The most interesting part of those celebrations as I could recall was the eve of each feast. I would get up four or five times at night to test my new clothes and inspect the chickens, goats or ducks that were earmarked for the celebrations. To say the least, Ukpa Ochodu, my sweet home was like a second heaven to my age mates and me. Famine was not known there in my childhood. There were different kinds of food crops, fruits, domestic animals, birds, eggs and bush meat to send hunger back to her motherland.Yams, cassava, beans, rice, sweet potatoes and their twins, okonkilo, ichiri(hard beans). bambara nuts, groundnuts just to name but a few never escape each household. My Dad was highly respected among his age group for various reasons. He was a warrior, a great wrestler, a traditional dancer, a great farmer, a palm wine tapper, and a hunter par excellence. He hardly went on hunting expedition without returning home with an antelope, grass cutter, rabbits and guinea fowls to complement different kinds of soup my Mum creatively launched in our household. Children loved visiting our home especially in the evenings when Mum’s sauce would always lead us into temptation. I remembered that particular day when my mother caught me red-handed trying to extract a stubborn piece of meat that dared me from her Egusi soup. When she appeared, I quickly lied that I was trying to kill a lizard that jumped into the pot.”Lizard”? She asked and quickly added that in all her life she had never seen a living thing inside a boiling pot. She smiled and teased me with my native title”Uko chanyan gbodu”.She hugged me and I was ashamed of that little act. I promised her at that spot never to steal again. The aroma from her thatched kitchen was incomparable. Salivating was part of me.
My Father’s physical prowess was glaring and sometimes he would rather walk around our compound without his shirt to enjoy the natural ventilation although his muscles would vibrate back and forth like a lump of a full-blown beef sampled out by butchers to attract their clientele. One day my Mum teased him with these words “who are you showing these tiny muscles to as if someone is afraid of you’? He moved closer and grabbed my Mum’s hands. Next; she yelled, went down on her knees and asked for pardon. She added that she was only playing and reminded him that she was his jewel. I enjoyed that part of what kept them for years without an open quarrel or fight unlike some husbands who would occasionally beat their stubborn wives for some laxity, negligence and loose tongue. My Dad once instructed me never to beat my wife when I grew up. He added that women would never cease talking even when they are been beaten. Fighting a woman was a crime among male folks in our community. It was okay to slap your wife with the back of your hand but not to thoroughly beat her or inflict any injury on her. Consequences and sanctions were there. Of course; some stubborn men still touch their wives but usually in the privacy of their rooms.
To be continued...
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