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KWENU! Our culture, our future |
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Jemé je duu! M.O.
Ene
PREAMBLE When an ethical or a moral issue becomes a subject of public debate, many people take sides. Some scream the loudest, but the loud louts are not always right. The moral minority almost always carries the day, not by what is said but by the way the undying words are rendered. This is why I love the Igbo culture: It has answers to many questions in its rich proverbs, parables, and other idiomatic expressions. Sometimes, it hits you squarely on the face; sometimes, you think long and hard to get it. My concern here is the inability of some people to rise above little things that they know deep down are not above-board. Much more than that, they love to cloak their concerns in provocative pronouncements as if others are incapable of giving back as much as they get. Why would some people bombard a person they don't know with insulting mails about an honest submission? Why not ask, if you don't know; tell, if you know? Simple, isn't it? No, the facelessness of cyber-communication comes with its dark sides. But those who invented diplomacy aren't exactly nuts.
CRITICIZE, DON'T CRUCIFY Even when words of wisdom come with Jeremiad jabs, especially from people who mean us well, we take them. Venerable Father Iwene Tansi, the beatified monk, uttered some harsh words about Ndiigbo; he will be a saint soon. Misguided Irish priests, who went about destroying people's personal shrines, professed that they were helping folks find the way to heaven! They knew not what they were doing. We can criticize all we want, not crucify. However, when someone with a record of not-too-friendly disposition toward you or your creed takes to rudeness, you appeal to your inner consciousness. Me? I count my teeth with my tongue. I reread such write-ups as "Onyeara Ogbete"; and I reread and reflect on short stories I write.
The story of Nwaeke Ntioba came up recently. Who? Take a seat; allow me to serve you dry fish, for I have just recently returned from Olo! Once upon a time…. **** EKE Nwaeke Ntioba hailed from Udumotali clan in Igbo heartland. An easy-going young man, he bothered no one in the village -- if you ignore his annoyingly stupid stories. You see, Nwaeke, for he was born on Eke day of the four-day-28-week-13-month Igbo calendar, considers himself a socialite of sorts. Fact is, socialization is an expensive affair: To be socially relevant, you bring something to the table. You cannot receive and never give; no, the ways of the world work like a two-way street. You give, you receive; or, as Chris Okigbo had it, "Kepkanly" -- "aka nri kwoo aka ekpe; nke ekpe, nke nri." (The right hand washes the left hand; the left, the right.) It was farming season. Social events dried up at these times. Nwaeke woke up one morning and decided to hang around the motor park. A local driver asked him to be his mate for the day, since his conductor was sick. Nwaeke arrived Enugu and waltzed into Afia Ogbete [Enugu Main Market]. He picked up a fight almost immediately, but the driver yanked him away and took him back to the village. He complained to everyone in the village how Nkanu butchers hated his criticism of the number of vultures and the horde of houseflies in the market meat mall, how Nike women "chased" him, how "mama-put" ladies failed to understand his refusal to pay for not-too-hot soup, how Tinker was too disorganized, etc. Everyone shrugged. It was Eke -- a holy day dedicated to Chi n'Eke (God on the morning of creation). Men who would have spoken up preferred to zip it rather than offend Ani, the Earth Deity.
ORIE The next day was Orie. Folks went to their farms. Village dude Nwaeke jumped into a Toyota Hiace bus heading to Oye Abagana. The fare dispute with the bus conductor was settled as quickly as it began; they would have dropped him off at Agu Awka, a heavily wooded area with no human habitation insight. Now eligible to "make noise," Nwaeke took over the peace of other commuters and annoyed everyone in the bus nonstop. Some people changed buses at Awka just to regain some sanity. Of course, you don't drop a passenger for talking, not in ruggedly republican Igboland. That evening, Nwaeke bored his tired umunna (agnate) with complaints. He said the tradesmen at Njikoka had refused his offer to organize them into a union; that he could have made them millionaires. If they had listened, instead of saying he was not from Njikoka and therefore a bit suspect, he would have given them the power of their people. Folks ate their food quietly, drank their palm wine neatly, and let Nwaeke ramble on like he was Charles Atlas on a mission to save the world.
AFO Next morning, Nwaeke made a straight run to Nnewi with the first lorry out of the village. Noisome and noisy, the smell of exhaust emissions drove Nwaeke bonkers. But it was a free ride, so there was no trouble to make; he could have jumped down at any of the many stops. Nwaeke rested his lungs and moved into the market. He tried telling spare-parts dealers how to live their lives. The first boiboi (apprentice dealer) told him to come back the next day, Nkwo, that he would meet many people like himself with bloated ideas about international economics. So Nwaeke headed to Afo Uvume on the Oko-Umunze road. Once inside the sprawling market, he picked up an altercation with an older man who would not let him take along his calabash of palm wine "to go and get change." "You call me a thief?" he challenged the old man. "A whole son of Otali n'Udumotali, a colonial first-class chief, both warrant and paramount?" "I did not call you a thief! Thief or chief of wherever, my palm wine is my king!" "This is an insult…. a big insult!" Nwaeke turned to onlookers: "Don't I look like someone you can trust? A whole me: Nwaeze Nwaeke … a prince himself?" The old man stood his ground, yanked his calabash away from Nwaeke's hand, and walked back to his shanty shed to check on his other calabashes, muttering: "It is now hard to differentiate between motor mechanics and market madmen." That evening, villagers listened as Nwaeke narrated his escapades, how Orumba people of Uvume "insulted my manhood," and how he would never go there, "even if they begged and paid me to come and marry their daughters."
NKWO The next day was Nkwo-Agu Udi, a popular market on old Enugu-Onitsha Road. From his village, Nwaeke crossed into Oji River Township early enough. He helped Achi, Awlaw, and Inyi women transfer their loads from the Orie Awgu-Eke Egbo-Oji River trucks onto Udi-bound buses. For his troubles, he got enough money for a delicious breakfast of okpa (also called "Udi Bread" and made from bambara-nut flour) and a bottle of sizzling, gas-full Fanta, a soda/soft-drink of orange color and flavor. At Nkwo Agu, Nwaeke got into a disgraceful dispute. He had talked a lady of leisure into the Wayside Hotel, on the southeast side of the market. They ate. They drank. Time to pay, Nwaeke shifted uncomfortably. He asked for a room. A staff informed him that the eating and lodging units were under different accounts, that he (Nwaeke) should settle the restaurant bill first. He rubbed his chin hard and harder and scratched his wild hair. You know when a man chews awkwardly that there is sand in his food. Nwaeke was flat broke. Then he remembered: He had left his bag of money in the car! "I will go get it; my wife is here." The hotelier shrugged and suggested that he should stay behind while his "wife" fetched the bag of money. Nwaeke screamed and swore, saying that the manager was trying to "steal my wife for juju concoction. My wife on whom I paid so much dowry! I am screaming loudly not because this people will not commit abomination but so the whole world will listen to and hear the truth I tell." Meanwhile, the lady -- a beautiful, popular prostitute called "Akwunakwuna Amantugo," excused herself to visit the restroom. She walked on and out of the hotel, emerging from the entrance opposite Anglican Technical Secondary School, now Community Secondary School. A few yards down south on Umuaga Road, she turned left and walked across the cemetery to Umuabi Road. From here, on the fringes of the meat market, she melted back into the main market. There were many traders looking for female, after-hour drinking company. And the Amantugo lady was always welcome in the company of market men. One-on-one encounters were for those who could afford her taste in good food and fine wine.
NWAEKE NTIOBA Folks from Nwaeke's village witnessed the disgraceful disagreement. The men talked amongst themselves and decided that enough was enough. They chipped in and paid up and left with the shame of their kinsman disgracing them at "Nkwo Agbaja" -- as people from Nwaeke's community called Nkwo-Agu (Udi Divisional Main) Market. Back in the village that evening, Nweke was all mouth and nothing would stop him from spewing silly, fabricated version of the affair. Not one kinsman could get in one word. An elder cleared his throat and cut off Nwaeke with his statesman aura. Silence. "Nwaeke nwa Ntioba, we have heard your version of 'the insults from idiots.' Maybe we should wait until OUR wife from Amantugo arrives to hear the rest of the story!" "OUR wife? Ichie, I salute you, but what has their insults got to do with…. What wife?" "Until then, nwanna m Nwaeke, when you go to Ogbete and fight; you go to Oye Agu and fight; you go to Afo Ufume, you fight; and at Nkwo Agbaja, you fight… Let me ask: O'u gi na-acho ndiafia, ka o bu ha na-acho gi!" [Are you looking for market people, or are they looking for you.] It sounded like a question, but it was not; it was a statement of fact, words of wisdom. Even a village idiot would know when weighty words are loaded, especially when such a respected, elderly figure called a loafer (efulefu) my kinsman. **** CONCLUSION We know what happened afterwards. But if some people were to give Nwaeke the same advice, they would blurt it out bluntly like it is. In Onitsha, you would hear: "Jee nodu ana!" (Go sit down!) The Owerri brand bakes my breakfast bacon brown: "Jemé je duu!" So, if four events ever suggest that you sit down, sit down. Je duu! That is the beauty and the sweetness of languages and dialects we speak. That's really the gist of the story. Everything else? Embellishment. |
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