Things Fall Apart (8 page)

“Too much of his grandfather,” Obierika thought, but he did not say it. The same thought also came to Okonkwo’s mind. But he had long learned how to lay that ghost. Whenever the thought of his father’s weakness and failure troubled him he expelled it by thinking about his own strength and success. And so he did now. His mind went to his latest show of manliness.

“I cannot understand why you refused to come with us to kill that boy,” he asked Obierika.

“Because I did not want to,” Obierika replied sharply. “I had something better to do.”

“You sound as if you question the authority and the decision of the Oracle, who said he should die.”

“I do not. Why should I? But the Oracle did not ask me to carry out its decision.”

“But someone had to do it. If we were all afraid of blood, it would not be done. And what do you think the Oracle would do then?”

“You know very well, Okonkwo, that I am not afraid of blood; and if anyone tells you that I am, he is telling a lie. And let me tell you one thing, my friend. If I were you I would have stayed at home. What you have done will not please the Earth. It is the kind of action for which the goddess wipes out whole families.”

“The Earth cannot punish me for obeying her messenger,” Okonkwo said. “A child’s fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm.”

“That is true,” Obierika agreed. “But if the Oracle said that my son should be killed I would neither dispute it nor be the one to do it.”

They would have gone on arguing had Ofoedu not come in just then. It was clear from his twinkling eyes that he had important news. But it would be impolite to rush him. Obierika offered him a lobe of the kola nut he had broken with Okonkwo. Ofoedu ate slowly and talked about the locusts. When he finished his kola nut he said:

“The things that happen these days are very strange.”

“What has happened?” asked Okonkwo.

“Do you know Ogbuefi Ndulue?” Ofoedu asked.

“Ogbuefi Ndulue of Ire village,” Okonkwo and Obierika said together.

“He died this morning,” said Ofoedu.

“That is not strange. He was the oldest man in Ire,” said Obierika.

“You are right,” Ofoedu agreed. “But you ought to ask why the drum has not beaten to tell Umuofia of his death.”

“Why?” asked Obierika and Okonkwo together.

“That is the strange part of it. You know his first wife who walks with a stick?”

“Yes. She is called Ozoemena.”

“That is so,” said Ofoedu. “Ozoemena was, as you know, too old to attend Ndulue during his illness. His younger wives did that. When he died this morning, one of these women went to Ozoemena’s hut and told her. She rose from her mat, took her stick and walked over to the
obi.
She knelt on her knees and hands at the threshold and called her husband, who was laid on a mat. ‘Ogbuefi Ndulue,’ she called, three times, and went back to her hut. When the youngest wife went to call her again to be present at the washing of the body, she found her lying on the mat, dead.”

“That is very strange, indeed,” said Okonkwo. “They will put off Ndulue’s funeral until his wife has been buried.”

“That is why the drum has not been beaten to tell Umuofia.”

“It was always said that Ndulue and Ozoemena had one mind,” said Obierika. “I remember when I was a young boy there was a song about them. He could not do anything without telling her.”

“I did not know that,” said Okonkwo. “I thought he was a strong man in his youth.”

“He was indeed,” said Ofoedu.

Okonkwo shook his head doubtfully.

“He led Umuofia to war in those days,” said Obierika.

Okonkwo was beginning to feel like his old self again. All that he required was something to occupy his mind. If he had killed Ikemefuna during the busy planting season or harvesting it would not have been so bad; his mind would have been centered on his work. Okonkwo was not a man of thought but of action. But in absence of work, talking was the next best.

Soon after Ofoedu left, Okonkwo took up his goatskin bag to go.

“I must go home to tap my palm trees for the afternoon,” he said.

“Who taps your tall trees for you?” asked Obierika.

“Umezulike,” replied Okonkwo.

“Sometimes I wish I had not taken the
ozo
title,” said Obierika. “It wounds my heart to see these young men killing palm trees in the name of tapping.”

“It is so indeed,” Okonkwo agreed. “But the law of the land must be obeyed.”

“I don’t know how we got that law,” said Obierika. “In many other clans a man of title is not forbidden to climb the palm tree. Here we say he cannot climb the tall tree but he can tap the short ones standing on the ground. It is like Dimaragana, who would not lend his knife for cutting up dogmeat because the dog was taboo to him, but offered to use his teeth.”

“I think it is good that our clan holds the
ozo
title in high
esteem,” said Okonkwo. “In those other clans you speak of,
ozo
is so low that every beggar takes it.”

“I was only speaking in jest,” said Obierika. “In Abame and Aninta the title is worth less than two cowries. Every man wears the thread of title on his ankle, and does not lose it even if he steals.”

“They have indeed soiled the name of
ozo,”
said Okonkwo as he rose to go.

“It will not be very long now before my in-laws come,” said Obierika.

“I shall return very soon,” said Okonkwo, looking at the position of the sun.

There were seven men in Obierika’s hut when Okonkwo returned. The suitor was a young man of about twenty-five, and with him were his father and uncle. On Obierika’s side were his two elder brothers and Maduka, his sixteen-year-old son.

“Ask Akueke’s mother to send us some kola nuts,” said Obierika to his son. Maduka vanished into the compound like lightning. The conversation at once centered on him, and everybody agreed that he was as sharp as a razor.

“I sometimes think he is too sharp,” said Obierika, somewhat indulgently. “He hardly ever walks. He is always in a hurry. If you are sending him on an errand he flies away before he has heard half of the message.”

“You were very much like that yourself,” said his eldest brother. “As our people say, ‘When mother-cow is chewing
grass its young ones watch its mouth.’ Maduka has been watching your mouth.”

As he was speaking the boy returned, followed by Akueke, his half-sister, carrying a wooden dish with three kola nuts and alligator pepper. She gave the dish to her father’s eldest brother and then shook hands, very shyly, with her suitor and his relatives. She was about sixteen and just ripe for marriage. Her suitor and his relatives surveyed her young body with expert eyes as if to assure themselves that she was beautiful and ripe.

She wore a coiffure which was done up into a crest in the middle of the head. Cam wood was rubbed lightly into her skin, and all over her body were black patterns drawn with
uli.
She wore a black necklace which hung down in three coils just above her full, succulent breasts. On her arms were red and yellow bangles, and on her waist four or five rows of
jigida
, or waist beads.

When she had shaken hands, or rather held out her hand to be shaken, she returned to her mother’s hut to help with the cooking.

“Remove your
jigida
first,” her mother warned as she moved near the fireplace to bring the pestle resting against the wall. “Every day I tell you that
jigida
and fire are not friends. But you will never hear. You grew your ears for decoration, not for hearing. One of these days your
jigida
will catch fire on your waist, and then you will know.”

Akueke moved to the other end of the hut and began to remove the waist-beads. It had to be done slowly and carefully, taking each string separately, else it would break and the
thousand tiny rings would have to be strung together again. She rubbed each string downwards with her palms until it passed the buttocks and slipped down to the floor around her feet.

The men in the
obi
had already begun to drink the palm-wine which Akueke’s suitor had brought. It was a very good wine and powerful, for in spite of the palm fruit hung across the mouth of the pot to restrain the lively liquor, white foam rose and spilled over.

“That wine is the work of a good tapper,” said Okonkwo.

The young suitor, whose name was Ibe, smiled broadly and said to his father: “Do you hear that?” He then said to the others: “He will never admit that I am a good tapper.”

“He tapped three of my best palm trees to death,” said his father, Ukegbu.

“That was about five years ago,” said Ibe, who had begun to pour out the wine, “before I learned how to tap.” He filled the first horn and gave to his father. Then he poured out for the others. Okonkwo brought out his big horn from the goatskin bag, blew into it to remove any dust that might be there, and gave it to Ibe to fill.

As the men drank, they talked about everything except the thing for which they had gathered. It was only after the pot had been emptied that the suitor’s father cleared his voice and announced the object of their visit.

Obierika then presented to him a small bundle of short broomsticks. Ukegbu counted them.

“They are thirty?” he asked.

Obierika nodded in agreement.

“We are at last getting somewhere,” Ukegbu said, and then turning to his brother and his son he said: “Let us go out and whisper together.” The three rose and went outside. When they returned Ukegbu handed the bundle of sticks back to Obierika. He counted them; instead of thirty there were now only fifteen. He passed them over to his eldest brother, Machi, who also counted them and said:

“We had not thought to go below thirty. But as the dog said, ‘If I fall down for you and you fall down for me, it is play’. Marriage should be a play and not a fight; so we are falling down again.” He then added ten sticks to the fifteen and gave the bundle to Ukegbu.

In this way Akuke’s bride-price was finally settled at twenty bags of cowries. It was already dusk when the two parties came to this agreement.

“Go and tell Akueke’s mother that we have finished,” Obierika said to his son, Maduka. Almost immediately the women came in with a big bowl of foo-foo. Obierika’s second wife followed with a pot of soup, and Maduka brought in a pot of palm-wine.

As the men ate and drank palm-wine they talked about the customs of their neighbors.

“It was only this morning,” said Obierika, “that Okonkwo and I were talking about Abame and Aninta, where titled men climb trees and pound foo-foo for their wives.”

“All their customs are upside-down. They do not decide bride-price as we do, with sticks. They haggle and bargain as if they were buying a goat or a cow in the market.”

“That is very bad,” said Obierika’s eldest brother. “But
what is good in one place is bad in another place. In Umunso they do not bargain at all, not even with broomsticks. The suitor just goes on bringing bags of cowries until his in-laws tell him to stop. It is a bad custom because it always leads to a quarrel.”

“The world is large,” said Okonkwo. “I have even heard that in some tribes a man’s children belong to his wife and her family.”

“That cannot be,” said Machi. “You might as well say that the woman lies on top of the man when they are making the children.”

“It is like the story of white men who, they say, are white like this piece of chalk,” said Obierika. He held up a piece of chalk, which every man kept in his
obi
and with which his guests drew lines on the floor before they ate kola nuts. “And these white men, they say, have no toes.”

“And have you never seen them?” asked Machi.

“Have you?” asked Obierika.

“One of them passes here frequently,” said Machi. “His name is Amadi.”

Those who knew Amadi laughed. He was a leper, and the polite name for leprosy was “the white skin.”

For the first time in three nights, Okonkwo slept. He woke up once in the middle of the night and his mind went back to the past three days without making him feel uneasy. He began to wonder why he had felt uneasy at all. It was like a man wondering in broad daylight why a dream had appeared so terrible to him at night. He stretched himself and scratched his thigh where a mosquito had bitten him as he slept. Another one was wailing near his right ear. He slapped the ear and hoped he had killed it. Why do they always go for one’s ears? When he was a child his mother had told him a story about it. But it was as silly as all women’s stories. Mosquito, she had said, had asked Ear to marry him, whereupon Ear fell on the floor in uncontrollable laughter. “How much longer do you think you will live?” she asked. “You are already a skeleton.” Mosquito went away humiliated, and any time he passed her way he told Ear that he was still alive.