Arrow of God (20 page)

Akuebue did not answer.

‘Every word happened as I said it would.’

‘I do not doubt that,’ said Akuebue and, in a sudden access of impatience and recklessness, added, ‘but you forget one thing: that no man however great can win judgement against a clan. You may think you did in that land dispute but you are wrong. Umuaro will always say that you betrayed them before the white man. And they will say that you are betraying them again today by sending your son to join in desecrating the land.’

Ezeulu’s reply to this showed Akuebue once again that even to his best friend the priest was unknowable. Even his sons did not know him. Akuebue was not sure what reply he had expected, but it was most certainly not the laugh which he got now. It made him afraid and uneasy like one who encounters a madman laughing on a solitary path. He was given no time to examine this strange feeling of fear closely. But he was to have it again in future and it was only then he saw its meaning.

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Ezeulu again. ‘So I betrayed Umuaro to the white man? Let me ask you one question. Who brought the white man here? Was it Ezeulu? We went to war against Okperi who are our blood brothers over a piece of land which did not belong to us and you blame the white man for stepping in. Have you not heard that when two brothers fight a stranger reaps the harvest? How many white men went in their party that destroyed Abame? Do you know? Five.’ He held his right hand up with the five fingers fanned out. ‘Five. Now have you ever heard that five people – even if their heads reached the sky – could overrun a whole clan? Impossible. With all their power and magic white men would not have overrun entire Olu and Igbo if we did not help them. Who showed them the way to Abame? They were not born there; how then did they find the way? We showed them and are still showing them. So let nobody come to me now and complain that the white man did this and did that. The man who brings ant-infested faggots into his hut should not grumble when lizards begin to pay him a visit.’

‘I cannot dispute any of the things you say. We did many things wrong in the past, but we should not therefore go on doing the same today. We now know what we did wrong, so we can put it right again. We know where this rain began to fall on us…’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Ezeulu. ‘But whether you do or not you must not forget one thing. We have shown the white man the way to our house and given him a stool to sit on. If we now want him to go away again we must either wait until he is tired of his visit or we must drive him away. Do you think you can drive him away by blaming Ezeulu? You may try, and the day I hear that you have succeeded I shall come and shake your hand. I have my own way and I shall follow it. I can see things where other men are blind. That is why I am Known and at the same time I am Unknowable. You are my friend and you know whether I am a thief or a murderer or an honest man. But you cannot know the Thing which beats the drum to which Ezeulu dances. I can see tomorrow; that is why I can tell Umuaro:
come out from this because there is death there
or
do this because there is profit in it
. If they listen to me, o-o; if they refuse to listen, o-o. I have passed the stage of dancing to receive presents. You knew my father who was priest before me. You knew my grandfather too, albeit with the eyes of a little child.’ Akuebue nodded in agreement.

‘Did not my grandfather put a stop to
ichi
in Umuaro? He stood up in all his awe and said: We shall no longer carve our faces as if they were
ozo
doors.’

‘He did it,’ said Akuebue.

‘What was Umuaro’s reply to him? They cursed him; they said their men would look like women. They said:
how is a man’s endurance to be tested?
Today who asks such a question?’

Akuebue felt that he had already agreed with Ezeulu sufficiently to be able to dissent again. ‘What you say cannot be doubted,’ he said, ‘but if what we are told is true, your grandfather was not alone in that fight. There were said to be more people against
ichi
in Umuaro than…’

‘Was that how your father told you the story? I heard differently. Anyhow the important thing was that the Chief Priest led them and they followed. But if there is hearsay in that one, what about events in my father’s time? You were not an infant when my father set aside the custom which made any child born to a widow a slave unless…’

‘I am not the man to dispute any of the things you say, Ezeulu. I am your friend and I can talk to you as I like; but that does not mean I forget that one half of you is man and the other half spirit. And what you say about your father and grandfather is very true. But what happened in their time and what is happening today are not the same; they do not even have resemblance. Your father and grandfather did not do what they did to please a stranger…’

This stung Ezeulu sharply but again he kept a firm hold on his anger.

‘Do not make me laugh,’ he said. ‘If someone came to you and said that Ezeulu sent his son to a strange religion so as to please another man what would you tell him? I say don’t make me laugh. Shall I tell you why I sent my son? Then listen. A disease that has never been seen before cannot be cured with everyday herbs. When we want to make a charm we look for the animal whose blood can match its power; if a chicken cannot do it we look for a goat or a ram; if that is not sufficient we send for a bull. But sometimes even a bull does not suffice, then we must look for a human. Do you think it is the sound of the death-cry gurgling through blood that we want to hear? No, my friend, we do it because we have reached the very end of things and we know that neither a cock nor a goat nor even a bull will do. And our fathers have told us that it may even happen to an unfortunate generation that they are pushed beyond the end of things, and their back is broken and hung over a fire. When this happens they may sacrifice their own blood. This is what our sages meant when they said that a man who has nowhere else to put his hand for support puts it on his own knee. That was why our ancestors when they were pushed beyond the end of things by the warriors of Abam sacrificed not a stranger but one of themselves and made the great medicine which they called Ulu.’

Akuebue cracked his fingers and moved his head up and down. ‘So it is a sacrifice,’ he muttered to himself. ‘So Edogo was right after all, though he had seemed so foolish at the time.’ He paused a while then spoke aloud:

‘What happens if this boy you are sacrificing turns out to be the one chosen by Ulu when you are looked for and not found.’

‘Leave that to the deity. When the time comes of which you speak Ulu will not seek your advice or help. So do not keep awake at night for that.’

‘I don’t, why should I? My compound is full of its own troubles, so why should I carry yours home; where would I find space to put them? But I must repeat what I said before and if you don’t want to listen you can stop your ears. When you spoke against the war with Okperi you were not alone. I too was against it and so were many others. But if you send your son to join strangers in desecrating the land you will be alone. You may go and mark it on that wall to remind you that I said so.’

‘Who is to say when the land of Umuaro has been desecrated, you or I?’ Ezeulu’s mouth was shaped with haughty indifference. ‘As for being alone, do you not think that it should be as familiar to me now as are dead bodies to the earth? My friend, don’t make me laugh.’

Nwafo who had come into his father’s hut when Akuebue was saying of Ezeulu that he was half-man, half-spirit did not understand the present dispute between the two men. But he had seen equally dangerous-looking scenes come to nothing before. He was therefore not in the least surprised when his father sent him to get palm oil sprinkled with ground pepper from his mother. When he returned with it Ezeulu had already brought down his round basket. This basket had a close-fitting lid and dangled from the roof directly above the log fire. Dangling with it were Ezeulu’s ceremonial raffia skirt, two calabashes and a few heads of last season’s maize specially chosen, on account of their good quality, for planting. Basket, maize and raffia skirt were all black with smoke.

Ezeulu opened the round basket and brought out a boiled and smoked leg of goat and cut a big piece for Akuebue and a very small one for himself.

‘I think I shall need something to wrap this,’ said Akuebue. Ezeulu sent Nwafo to cut a piece of banana leaf which he held above the smouldering log fire till it wilted slightly and lost its brittle freshness; then he passed it to Akuebue who divided the meat into two, wrapped the bigger half in the banana leaf and put it away in his bag. Then he began to eat the other half, dipping it in the peppered palm oil.

Ezeulu gave a little strand from his own piece to Nwafo and threw the remainder into his mouth. For a long time they ate in silence and when they began to talk again it was about less weighty things. Ezeulu broke off a toothpick from the broom lying on the floor near him and leaned back on the wall. From that position he easily commanded the approaches to his compound and the compound of his two sons. He was thus the first to notice the arrival of the Court Messenger and his escort.

When the two strangers reached Ezeulu’s threshold the escort clapped his hands and said: ‘Are the owners of this house at home?’ There was a slight pause before Ezeulu answered: ‘Enter and you will see.’ The escort bent down at the low eaves and entered first; then the other followed. Ezeulu welcomed them and told them to sit down. The Court Messenger sat on the mud-bed but his escort remained standing. The greetings over he saluted Ezeulu and explained that he was the son of Nwodika in Umunneora.

‘I thought I saw your father’s face as soon as you came in,’ said Akuebue.

‘Very true,’ said Ezeulu. ‘Anyone setting eyes on him knows he has seen Nwodika. Your friend seems to have come from far.’

‘Yes, we have come from Okperi…’

‘Do you live in Okperi then?’ asked Ezeulu.

‘Yes,’ replied Akuebue. ‘Have you not heard of one of our young men who lives with the white man in Okperi?’

Ezeulu had indeed heard but deliberately feigned ignorance.

‘True?’ he asked. ‘I do not hear many things nowadays. So you have come all the way from Okperi this morning and you are here already? It is good to be strong and young. How are the people of my mother’s land? You know my mother came from Okperi.’

‘There was nothing but happiness and laughter when we left; what has happened since I cannot say.’

‘And who is your companion?’

‘He is the Chief Messenger of the great white man, the Destroyer of Guns.’

Ezeulu cracked his fingers and nodded.

‘So this is Wintabota’s messenger? Is he a man of Okperi?’

‘No,’ said the escort. ‘His clan is Umuru.’

‘Was Wintabota well when you left? We have not seen him in these parts for a long time.’

‘Even so. This man here is his eye.’

The Chief Messenger did not seem too pleased with the trend of the conversation. In his mind he was angry with this man in the bush who put on airs and pretended to be familiar with the District Officer. His escort sensed this and made desperate efforts to establish his importance.

‘Stranger, you are welcome,’ said Ezeulu. ‘What is your name?’

‘He is called Jekopu,’ said the escort. ‘As I said, nobody sees the Destroyer of Guns without his consent. There is no one in Okperi who does not know the name of Jekopu. The Destroyer of Guns asked me to accompany him on this journey because he is a stranger to these parts.’

‘Yes,’ said Ezeulu with a meaningful glance in the direction of Akuebue. ‘That is as it should be. The white man sends a man from Umuru and the man from Umuru is shown the way by a man of Umuaro.’ He laughed. ‘What did I tell you, Akuebue? Our sages were right when they said that no matter how many spirits plotted a man’s death it would come to nothing unless his personal god took a hand in the deliberation.’

The two men looked puzzled. Then Nwodika’s son said: ‘That is so; but we have not come on a mission of death.’

‘No. I did not say so. It is only a manner of speaking. We have a saying that a snake is never as long as the stick to which we liken its length. I know that Wintabota will not send a mission of death to Ezeulu. We are good friends. What I said was that a stranger could not come to Umuaro unless a son of the land showed him the way.’

‘That is true,’ said the escort. ‘We have come…’

‘My friend,’ interrupted the Chief Messenger, ‘you have already done what you were sent to do; the rest is for me. So put your tongue into its scabbard.’

‘Forgive me. I take my hands off.’

Ezeulu sent Nwafo to bring kola from Matefi. By this time both Obika and Edogo had come in, news having reached them that a messenger of the white man was in their father’s hut. When the kolanut came it was shown round and broken.

‘Have the people you sent to the market for palm wine returned yet?’ asked Ezeulu. Obika said no.

‘I knew they would not. A man who means to buy palm wine does not hang about at home until all the wine in the market is sold.’ He was still leaning with his back on the wall, holding one leg a little off the ground with hands interlocked on the shin.

The Court Messenger removed his blue fez and planted it on his knee exposing a clean-shaven head shining with sweat. The edge of the cap left a ring round the head. He cleared his throat and spoke, almost for the first time.

‘I salute you all.’ He brought out a very small book from his breast pocket and opened it in the manner of a white man. ‘Which one of you is called Ezeulu?’ he asked from the book and then looked up and around the hut. No one spoke; they were all too astonished. Akuebue was the first to recover.

‘Look round and count your teeth with your tongue,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Obika, you must expect foreigners to talk through the nose.’

‘You say you are a man of Umuru?’ asked Ezeulu. ‘Do you have priests and elders there?’

‘Do not take my question amiss. The white man has his own way of doing things. Before he does anything to you he will first ask you your name and the answer must come from your own lips.’