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“Yes, if you will agree to make me a pastor,” said Odogwu.
Everyone laughed again. Then the conversation veered round again to Obi. Matthew Ogbonna, who had been a carpenter in Onitsha and was consequently a man of the world, said they should all thank God that Obi had not brought home a white wife.
“White wife?” asked one of the men. To him it was rather farfetched.
“Yes. I have seen it with my two eyes,” said Matthew.
“Yes,” said Obi. “Many black men who go to the white man’s country marry their women.”
“You hear?” asked Matthew. “I tell you I have seen it with my own two eyes in Onitsha. The woman even had two children. But what happened in the end? She left those children and went back to her country. That is why I say a black man who marries a white woman wastes his time. Her stay with him is like the stay of the moon in the sky. When the time comes she will go.”
“Very true,” said another man who had also traveled. “It is not her going away that matters. It is her turning the man’s face away from his kinsmen while she stays.”
“I am happy that you returned home safe,” said Matthew to Obi.
“He is a son of Iguedo,” said old Odogwu. “There are nine villages in Umuofia, but Iguedo is Iguedo. We have our faults, but we are not empty men who become white when they see white, and black when they see black.”
Obi’s heart glowed with pride within him.
“He is the grandson of Ogbuefi Okonkwo who faced the white man single-handed and died in the fight. Stand up!”
Obi stood up obediently.
“Remark him,” said Odogwu. “He is Ogbuefi Okonkwo come back. He is Okonkwo kpom-kwem, exact, perfect.”
Obi’s father cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Dead men do not come back,” he said.
“I tell you this is Okonkwo. As it was in the beginning so it will be in the end. That is what your religion tells us.”
“It does not tell you that dead men return.”
“Iguedo breeds great men,” said Odogwu, changing the subject. “When I was young I knew of them—Okonkwo, Ezeudu, Obierika, Okolo, Nwosu.” He counted them off with his right fingers against the left. “And many others, as many as grains of sand. Among their fathers we hear of Ndu, Nwosisi, Ikedi, Obika, and his brother Iweka—all giants. These men were great in their day. Today greatness has changed its tune. Titles are no longer great, neither are barns or large numbers of wives and children. Greatness is now in the things of the white man. And so we too have changed our tune. We are the first in all the nine villages to send our son to the white man’s land. Greatness has belonged to Iguedo from ancient times. It is not made by man. You cannot plant greatness as you plant yams or maize. Who ever planted an iroko tree—the greatest tree in the forest? You may collect all the iroko seeds in the world, open the soil and put them there. It will be in vain. The great tree chooses where to grow and we find it there, so it is with greatness in men.”
CHAPTER SIX
Obi’s homecoming was not in the end the happy event he had dreamt of. The reason was his mother. She had grown so old and frail in four years that he could hardly believe it. He had heard of her long periods of illness, but he had not thought of it quite this way. Now that all the visitors had gone away and she came and hugged him and put her arms round his neck, for the second time tears rose in his eyes. Henceforth he wore her sadness round his neck like a necklace of stone.
His father too was all bones, although he did not look nearly as bad as his mother. It was clear to Obi that they did not have enough good food to eat. It was scandalous, he thought, that after nearly thirty years’ service in the church his father should retire on a salary of two pounds a month, a good slice of which went back to the same church by way of class fees and other contributions. And he had his two last children at school, each paying school fees and church fees.
Obi and his father sat up for a long time after the others had gone to bed, in the oblong room which gave on to the outside through a large central door and two windows. This room was called pieze in Christian houses. The door and windows were shut to discourage neighbors who would have continued to stream in to see Obi—some of them for the fourth time that day.
There was a hurricane lamp beside the chair on which Obi’s father sat. It was his lamp. He washed the globe himself, he would not trust anybody to do it. The lamp itself was older than Obi.
The walls of the pieze had recently been given a new coat of chalk. Obi had
not had a moment until now to look round for such loving tributes. The floor had also been rubbed; but what with the countless feet that had trod on it that day it was already needing another rubbing with red earth and water.
His father broke the silence at length.
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.”
“What is that, Father?” asked Obi.
“Sometimes fear came upon me that I might not be spared to see your return.”
“Why? You seem as strong as ever.”
Obi’s father ignored the false compliment, pursuing his own train of thought. “Tomorrow we shall all worship at church. The pastor has agreed to make it a special service for you.”
