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‘It is right for a man to take his wife home,’ he said. ‘But I want to remind you that when we begin to plant crops it will be one year since she began to live in my compound. Did you bring yams or cocoyams or cassava to feed her and her child? Or do you think that they are still carrying the breakfast they ate in your house last year?’
Ibe and his people made some vague, apologetic noises.
‘What I want to know,’ said Ezeulu, ‘is how you will pay me for taking care of your wife for one year.’
‘In-law, I understand you very well,’ said Onwuzuligbo. ‘Leave everything to us. You know that a man’s debt to his father-in-law can never be fully discharged. When we buy a goat or a cow we pay for it and it becomes our own. But when we marry a wife we must go on paying until we die. We do not dispute that we owe you. Our debt is even greater than you say. What about all the years from her birth to the day we took her from you? Indeed we owe you a great debt, but we ask you to give us time.’
‘Let me agree with you,’ said Ezeulu, ‘but I am agreeing in cowardice.’
Besides Ezeulu’s two grown-up sons, Edogo and Obika, his younger brother was also present. His name was Okeke Onenyi. He had said very little so far; but now it appeared to him that his brother was yielding too readily and he decided to speak.
‘My in-laws, I salute you. I have not said anything because the man who has no gift for speaking says his kinsmen have said all there is to say. Since you began to speak I have been listening very hard to hear one thing from your mouth, but I have not heard it. Different people have different reasons for marrying. Apart from children which we all want, some men want a woman to cook their meals, some want a woman to help on the farm, others want someone they can beat. What I want to learn from your mouth is whether our in-law has come because he has no one to beat when he wakes up in the morning nowadays.’
Onwuzuligbo promised on behalf of his kinsman that Akueke would not be beaten in future. Then Ezeulu sent for her to find out whether she wanted to return to her husband. She hesitated and then said she would go if her father was satisfied.
‘My in-laws, I salute you,’ said Ezeulu. ‘Akueke will return, but not today. She will need a little time to get ready. Today is Oye; she will come back to you on the Oye after next. When she comes, treat her well. It is not bravery for a man to beat his wife. I know a man and his wife must quarrel; there is no abomination in that. Even brothers and sisters from the same womb do disagree; how much more two strangers. No, you may quarrel, but let it not end in fighting. I shall say no more at present.’
Ezeulu was grateful to Ulu for bringing about so unexpectedly the mending of the quarrel between Akueke and her husband. He was sure that Ulu did it to put him in the right mind for purifying the six villages before they put their crops into the ground. That very evening his six assistants came to him for their orders and he sent them to announce each man in his own village that the Feast of the Pumpkin Leaves would take place on the following Nkwo.
Ugoye was still cooking supper when the crier’s ogene sounded. Ugoye was notorious for her late cooking. Although Ezeulu often rebuked Matefi for cooking late Ugoye deserved the rebuke even more. But she was wiser than the senior wife; she never cooked late on the days she sent food to her husband. But on all other days her pestle would be heard far into the night. She was particularly slack when, as now, she was forbidden to cook for any grown man on account of her uncleanness.
Her daughter, Obiageli, and Akueke’s daughter, Nkechi, were telling each other stories. Nwafo sat on the small mud-seat at the foot of the hut’s central pillar watching them with a superior air and pointing out now and again their mistakes.
Ugoye stirred the soup on the fire and tasted it by running her tongue on the back of the ladle. The sound of the ogene caught her in the action.
‘Keep quiet, you children, and let me hear what they are saying.’
GOME GOME GOME GOME. ‘Ora Obodo, listen! Ezeulu has asked me to announce that the Festival of the Pumpkin Leaves will take place on the coming Nkwo.’ GOME GOME GOME GOME. ‘Ora Obodo! Ezeulu has asked me…’
Obiageli had broken off her story so that her mother could hear the crier’s message. While she waited impatiently her eyes fell on the soup ladle and, to occupy herself, she picked it up from the wooden bowl where it lay and proceeded to lick it dry.
‘Glutton,’ said Nwafo. ‘It is this lick lick lick which prevents woman from growing a beard.’
‘And where, big man, is your beard?’ asked Obiageli.
GOME GOME GOME GOME. ‘Folks of the village. The Chief Priest of Ulu has asked me to tell every man and every woman that the Festival of the First Pumpkin Leaves will be held on the coming Nkwo market day.’ GOME GOME GOME GOME.
The crier’s voice was already becoming faint as he took his message down the main pathway of Umuachala.
‘Shall we go back to the beginning?’ asked Nkechi.
‘Yes,’ said Obiageli. ‘The big ukwa fruit has fallen on Nwaka Dimk-polo and killed him. I shall sing the story and you reply.’
‘But I was replying before,’ protested Nkechi, ‘it is now my turn to sing.’
‘You are going to spoil everything now. You know we did not complete the story before the crier came.’
‘Do not agree, Nkechi,’ said Nwafo. ‘She wants to cheat you because she is bigger than you are.’
‘Nobody has called your name in this, ant-hill nose.’
‘You are asking for a cry.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Nkechi. After this it will be your turn to sing and I shall reply.’ Nkechi agreed and Obiageli began to sing again:
And who will punish this Water for me?
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo
