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“But is it necessary, Father? Is it not enough that we pray together here as we prayed this night?”
“It is necessary,” said his father. “It is good to pray at home but better to pray in God’s house.”
Obi thought: “What would happen if I stood up and said to him: ‘Father, I no longer believe in your God’?” He knew it was impossible for him to do it, but he just wondered what would happen if he did. He often wondered like that. A few weeks ago in London he had wondered what would have happened if he had stood up and shouted to the smooth M.P. lecturing to African students on the Central African Federation: “Go away, you are all bloody hypocrites!” It was not quite the same thing, though. His father believed fervently in God; the smooth M.P. was just a bloody hypocrite.
“Did you have time to read your Bible while you were there?”
There was nothing for it but to tell a lie. Sometimes a lie was kinder than the truth. Obi knew why the question had been asked. He had read his verses so badly at prayers that evening.
“Sometimes,” he replied, “but it was the Bible written in the English language.”
“Yes,” said his father. “I see.”
There was a long pause in which Obi remembered with shame how he had stumbled through his portions as a child. In the first verse he had pronounced ugwu as mountain when it should be circumcision. Four or five voices had promptly corrected him, the first to register being his youngest sister, Eunice, who was eleven and in Standard Four.
The whole family sat round the enormous parlor table with the ancient hurricane lamp in the center. There were nine people in all—father, brother, six sisters, and Obi. When his father called out the portion for the day from the Scripture Union Card, Obi had impressed himself by finding it without difficulty in the Bible which he shared with Eunice. Prayers were then said for the opening of the eyes, and the reading began, each person reading one verse in turn.
Obi’s mother sat in the background on a low stool. The four little children of her married daughters lay on the mat by her stool. She could read, but she never took part in the family reading. She merely listened to her husband and children. It had always been like that as far as the children could remember. She was a very devout woman, but Obi used to wonder whether, left to herself, she would not have preferred telling her children the folk stories that her mother had told her. In fact, she used to tell her eldest daughters stories. But that was before Obi was born. She stopped because her husband forbade her to do so.
“We are not heathens,” he had said. “Stories like that are not for the people of the Church.”
And Hannah had stopped telling her children folk stories. She was loyal to her husband and to her new faith. Her mother had joined the Church with her children after her husband’s death. Hannah had already grown up when they ceased to be “people of nothing” and joined the “people of the Church.” Such was the confidence of the early Christians that they called the others “the people of nothing” or sometimes, when they felt more charitable, “the people of the world.”
Isaac Okonkwo was not merely a Christian; he was a catechist. In their first years of married life he made Hannah see the grave responsibility she carried as a catechist’s wife. And as soon as she knew what was expected of her she did it, sometimes showing more zeal than even her husband. She taught her children not to accept food in neighbors’ houses because she said they offered their food to idols. That fact alone set her children apart from all others for, among the Ibo, children were free to eat where they liked. One day a neighbor offered a piece of yam to Obi, who was then four years old. He shook his head like his older and wiser sisters, and then said: “We don’t eat heathen food.” His sister Janet tried too late to cover his mouth with her hand.
But there were occasional setbacks in this crusade. A year or two later when Obi had begun to go to school, such a setback did take place. There was one lesson which he loved and feared. It was called “Oral.” During this period the teacher called on any pupil to tell the class a folk story. Obi loved these stories but he knew none which he could tell. One day the teacher called on him to face the class and tell them a story. As he came out and stood before them he trembled.
“Olulu ofu oge,” he began in the tradition of folk tales, but that was all he knew. His lips quivered but no other sounds came out. The class burst into derisive laughter, and tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he went back to his place.
As soon as he got home he told his mother about it. She told him to be patient until his father went to the evening prayer meeting.
Some weeks later Obi was called up again. He faced the class boldly and told one of the new stories his mother had told him. He even added a little touch to the end which made everyone laugh. It was the story of the wicked leopardess who wanted to eat the young lambs of his old friend the sheep. She went to the sheep’s hut when she knew she had gone to market and began to search for the young lambs. She did not know that their mother had hidden them inside some of the palm-kernels lying around. At last she gave up the search and brought two stones to crack some of the kernels and eat before going, because she was very, very hungry. As soon as she cracked the first, the nut flew into the bush. She was amazed. The second also flew into the bush. And the third and eldest not only flew into the bush but, in Obi’s version, slapped the leopardess in the eyes before doing so.
“You say you have only four days to stay with us?”
“Yes,” said Obi. “But I will do my best to come again within a year. I must be in Lagos to see about getting a job.”
“Yes,” said his father slowly. “A job is the first thing. A person who has not secured a place on the floor should not begin to look for a mat.” After a pause he said: “There are many things to talk about, but not tonight. You are tired and need sleep.”
“I am not very tired, Father. But perhaps it is better to talk tomorrow. There is one thing, however, about which you should have a restful mind. There will be no question of John not finishing his course at the Grammar School.”
“Good night, my son, and God bless you.”
“Good night, Father.”
He borrowed the ancient hurricane lamp to see his way to his room and bed. There was a brand-new white sheet on the old wooden bed with its hard grass-filled mattress. The pillow slips with their delicate floral designs were no doubt Esther’s work. “Good old Esther!” Obi thought. He remembered when he was a little boy and Esther had just become a teacher. Everyone said that she should no longer be called Esther because it was disrespectful, but Miss. So she was called Miss. Sometimes Obi forgot and called her Esther, whereupon Charity told him how rude he was.
In those days Obi got on very well with his three eldest sisters, Esther, Janet, and Agnes, but not with Charity, who was his immediate elder. Charity’s Ibo name was “A girl is also good,” but whenever they quarreled Obi called her “A girl is not good.” Then she would beat him until he cried unless their mother happened to be around, in which case Charity would postpone the beating. She was as strong as iron and was feared by other children in the neighborhood, even the boys.
Obi did not sleep for a long time after he had lain down. He thought about his responsibilities. It was clear that his parents could no longer stand on their own. They had never relied on his father’s meager pension. He planted yams and his wife planted cassava and coco yams. She also made soap from leachings of palm ash and oil and sold it to the villagers for a little profit. But now they were too old for these things.
“I must give them a monthly allowance from my salary.” How much? Could he afford ten pounds? If only he did not have to pay back twenty pounds a month to the Umuofia Progressive Union. Then there was John’s school fees.
“We’ll manage somehow,” he said aloud to himself. “One cannot have it both ways. There are many young men in this country today who would sacrifice themselves to get the opportunity I have had.”
Outside a strong wind had suddenly arisen and the disturbed trees became noisy. Flashes of lightning showed through the jalousie. It was going to rain. Obi liked rain at night. He forgot his responsibilities and thought about Clara, how heavenly it would be on such a night to feel her cool body against his—the shapely thighs and the succulent breasts.
Why had she said he should not tell his parents about her yet? Could it be that her mind was still not made up? He would have liked to tell his mother at least. He knew she would be overjoyed. She once said she would be ready to depart when she had seen his first child. That was before he went to England; it must have been when Esther’s first child was born. She now had three, Janet two, Agnes one. Agnes would have had two if her first child had lived. It must be dreadful to lose one’s first child, especially for a little girl like Agnes; she was no more than a little girl really at the time she got married—in her behavior at least. Even now, she still had not quite grown up. Her mother always told her so. Obi smiled in the darkness as he remembered the little incident after prayers an hour or two ago.
