Threshold of Tomorrow- Chapter Three

Atancho stood on the threshold of his house looking over the hills as the sky emptied its waters over his fields. he smiled to himself at the thought of his yields this year. his crops were doing so well. he had finished sowing his beans and corn right on time. the extra labour he hired was worth the pay. he looked over to his wife's kitchen. he could hear her whistling as she prepared the morning's food. for 30 years he has been married to her and each year felt like the other. 30 years put together felt like a year; a month; a week or better still a day. He was a happy man.

he walked back into his bedstead and grapped an umbrella. putting on his rain boots he made his way through the yard picking up the tune from his wife. he joined in the song humming in his deep voice as he made his way. he stopped to pick up a piece of plastic and dead wood strawn by the running water of the rain.

"Tabi", (meaning father of the compound), his wife called out peering when she heard him appraoch the kitchen door. "where are you going to in this rain?" she asked
"when has it become a crime for a man to join his wife in making the food?"
"since I got married to you"
"then it is a crime i will commit again tomorrow. what can i do to help?"
"What is in this pot here?" he asked as he took the lead off the steaming pot cooking on the hearth."hmmmm!" he said licking his lips as he always does, telling her as he always has everyday for 30 years what a wonderful cook she was.
"you'd find even stones are delicious", she said teasing him on his huge appetite.
he smiled as he lifted his shirt to reveal the muscles on his stomach shaped by years of work on the farm.
"I have not had anything to eat in weeks. see how flat my belle is." he said smiling.
"i am not suprised. you should have married another wife when i asked you too" she said
the smile vanished off his face and for a second the wrinkles that were begining to form on his fore head pulled closer. they always pulled closer when he was annoyed. but right now they parted as swiftly and the smile returned as she walked over to the chair on the far side of the kitchen.

She knew he would never accept to take a second wife no matter how much she insisted. Atancho was the only one of his six brothers who had one wife and despite his wife's suplications to take a second wife who will give him more children and above all a male child to carry his name, he chose to ignore her. He remembered how his mother died.

"This compound can hardly contain us two as it is. Where will we keep this new wife eh?" He said jokingly as he leaned over to part her shoulder. "life is good as it is."
"Yes, you always say that. I am not getting any younger. we only have one child. No male child to succeed you. All your brothers have many wives and children"
"Yea! Am I bothered about succession? Who says a girl child can't succeed her father eh?"
"But she's married." she responded. " I get bored and lonely living in the house on my own all the time"
"There are lots of children in the family. your sisters and brothers have children. Go and take one of them to live here with you. I thank God for the one child he gave us. There are lots of people without a child of their own. Be happy and grateful"
"I am" .

She leaned forward and shove a piece of wood into the fire. The flame flickered and little sparks flew out accompanied by a gush of smoke and ash. He raised his hand and in a sweeping motion blew the smoke and ash away from his face. He tilted his head to the side and looked at his wife through the maze of smoke and ash. He could see th pain on her face. It was not her fault what happened to her. He knew she still blames herself for not being able to give him more children even though they have tried so hard.

She should have listened to him, she thought when he told her not to go to the market that day.
She was already in her 7th month of pregnancy and he told her to stay at home and rest as he had always insisted from the day he found out she was pregnant. But she had not listened. She had decided to go to the market that day to sell another bucket of beans. She had promised Nemou Sam, (Sam's mother) from Buchi to supply her with an extra bucket for her children in the coast.
She had woken up that morning and prepared his food. She waited until he had left for the farm. She went into the barn where the crops were stored. She felt the bag that contained the beans which she had measured the night before. The bag seemed heavier than usual but she put it down to the pregnancy. Now that she was pregnant, she thought to herself, her strength is not the same again. But she will be fine with it she said. She stooped, lifted the back onto her left knee, waited a few seconds and will all her strength mustered into her outstretched arms she aimed the bag for her head. but her strength could only take it as far as to her face. She pulled it back gently onto her chest. A light wind escaped her body. She looked left and then right feeling embarrassed. With one last huff she lifted the bag first onto her left shoulder and gradually bounced it onto her head. She smiled to herself once the bag was finally balanced on her head. Gradually she made her way to the market stopping to greet neighbours and fellow villagers as she walked on. The sun was up but the wind stepped in to cool the temperatures. She felt a sharp pain in her lower back. She stopped for a moment, tilted the bag to one side and thought the bag must be exerting uneven weight onto her spine.  Then she walked again a few minutes. The market was not far now...a few hundred more paces and she shouldd start meeting folks from neighbouring villages thronging to sell their wares at the market. If only she could walk to the junction where the road from Nkonkah merges with the main road, she'd probably meet some folk to give her a hand with the bag. After all the people from these parts are kind. Who will refuse helping a pregnant woman to carry a bag of beans? Her husband is well known and respected by many. Just a few more paces and she'd get there.

The sun was hot now. She felt the sweat tickle her nose and she blew air from her mouth to cool her face. She felt the sweat running down her spine. Then down the small of her back. She was getting very hot. She quivered. She felt the sweat running down the inside of her legs. Hot sweat. She felt a sharp pain in her belle. She put her hand over it. It eased a little. A few more steps. One-two one-two one-two she counted in her mind. The pain again. This time stronger than the first. Then the sweat again but this time it did not feel like sweat. It was hotter and came from inside her body-deep down from her inside. She dropped the bag into the new bushes and lifted the loin cloth and peered underneath it. She ran her palm on the inside of her leg and stared at it. It was blood. Red fresh blood coming running down her legs. She was only seven months gone. She still had two months to go. this baby was not ready to come yet. Not now. Not today. Not here on the road to the market with no one to help her. she dropped to her knees and with the last strength in her she screamed for help wishing for someone to hear her. She tried to crawl towards the market but her legs won't move. she doubled over. She closed her eyes and let herself gently to the grown, leaning on her side then rolling over to lie on her back. She was looking directly into the eye of the sun. She couldn't see anything. She clouding feel anything. But she was aware of the glare of the sun piercing through her closed eyes. She felt the pain again. This time it was stronger and lasted longer. Gradually it eased away and she felt her muscles relaxed. It seemed the force pining her down was lifted. But she could not move. Then she heard voices from afar, drifting closer towards her. She heard footsteps. They stopped near her. She heard them murmur something about a baby and she drifted off to sleep.

"I am sorry!" she said breaking the silence that had descended upon the room. "I did not mean to sound that way".

He smiled at her through the smoke screen rising from the fire.
"We are blessed with a daughter who has taken her mother's good looks and brain and her fathers strength of mind. She's worth ten of my brothers and all their children put together", he said, never missing an opportunity to take a jibe at his brothers.

" Mind your tongue. walls have ears. Have you forgotten Ndimah so soon? He doesn't take kindly at you making fun of him" she smiled.

 "You remember when he chased me round the village because I called him Daddy long legs? Flinging his legs like a mosquito who has inhaled pepper" he said recovering from a deep throat laughter.

The Threshold of Tomorrow- Chapter Two

Wali sat on his door steps, looking straight ahead through the open door that let to his wife’s kitchen. His brow twisted, his left eye twitched and involuntarily he passed out wind. He jerked. He ran his hand over his face wiping his eyes as though surprised by he sound coming from his bosom. His stomach rumbled and his feet started to shake. The court yard was empty. The sky was dull. The night was gone but the sun seemed to have refused to rise. He shook his head and closed his eyes, wishing things were different. Wishing he’d listen to Tatah and had become a priest. And after a while when he opened his eyes, he was still alone, sitting on his door steps. The court yard was still empty. The sky was still dull and the sun had not risen. He stood up and fell back on his backside. His knees, buckled under his bulging stomach, will not hold his weight. He propped his elbows on his knees and took his head in his palms as though his head was now too heavy for his shoulders to carry. To his right lay the machete, his favourite machete, the one he has always used, which no one else was allowed to use. It was sharp as usual. On it was blood, dark dry blood.

He could not understand why it has come to this. He recalled the days of his youth. He recalled the corn fields and the coffee plantations. He recalled the school play ground and the priests and brothers who taught him at Sunday school. He recalled Lumabi, the woman of his dreams. He recalled his wife. Here he was now sitting on his door step, the smile of his youth gone, and the laughter of his children gone. Even nature seems to be mimicking his desolate life. The sun had gone to sleep on him, even the fowls that filled his court yard just the day before seem to have missed the breaking of day.

He looked to his left and caught a glimpse of the lifeless body of his dog, Bingo. Its gold furs stained by its blood. The wounds inflicted by his machete lay open and the flies knocking life out of each other as they feasted on its flesh. His inside rumbled again and he doubled over, clutching himself to stop the mad rush of his bowels coming through his mouth. He closed his eyes and listened to the rush of his heart, the music playing in his ears. it was a sad song. A funeral song. A dirge. The kind that they sing in church when mass is over and their a taking someone to the cemetery. This was a procession to the cemetery. The burial of everything that was of left of his life. Yes!! Wali was dead from the in side as he was to the world as he once knew it. His wife and children, his father; his friends and to...

He tasted the saltiness of the tears on his tongue. He felt the tears as the dripped from his eyes and trickled down the back of his hands and down his elbows leaving a snail trail on his cracked skin. He sniffed back the mucus that was blocking his nostrils and ran his left palm over his upper lip. His thoughts were racing. He was trying to keep track of what was going on in his mind. He was not mad. He was not going crazy. He knew who he was. He pinched himself just to make sure. With all the will power he could muster, he pulled himself onto his feet. He turned and glanced at his dog. He shuddered at the sight of its lifeless body. He had to kill it.

The clouds were gathering and he knew the rain would be heavy. He thought of his wife and his children again. What will happen if it starts raining before they arrive? Will they stop somewhere to shelter themselves from the storm?

He stumbled into his bedstead and snatched a spade. He stumbled out again, his vision blurred by the fountain pumping in his eyes. He stopped again on his door step and looked beyond the horizon into the darkening clouds. He saw a ray of sun light forcing its way through the denseness of the cloud, through the flickering leaves of huge kola nut trees, making its way straight into his face. His face lit up when the warmth of the sun ray hit his eyes. He said his name out loud as a thought crossed his mind. "Bury the dog" he said. He chuckled at the sound of his voice reverberating in his mind. "Bury the dog!" he said again, this time with the same power and conviction with which he made decisions.

He made his to the back of the house, underneath the flourishing banana plants, he dug a shallow grave in which he placed the remains of Bingo, his faithful friend. When he'd finished, he washed his spade in a pool of rain water and in the same pool he washed his hands and feet. Finishing the cleansing ritual by licking his lips and throwing a chunk of spittle into the pool.

He walked back to his bedstead and changed his clothes. He made the decision to go back and see Uche, the man of God who in his infinite wisdom had revealed to him the curse upon his house hold. The curse that brought him a crippled Obanje son and the demon that was hidden in his dog Bingo, sent from the spirit world to protect the obanje. The Bishop had promised that if he killed the dog and got rid of the crippled son the nightmares will be over.

The Threshold of Tomorrow- Chapter One

The drizzles were transforming into showers. The wind was growing stronger. Gradually they made their way down the hill, each clutching their loads on their heads as if their lives all depended on the little bundles, wrapped in leaves, they were carrying. They maintained the silence which had descended on them from the time they set out on this journey. It was not the first time they were walking these routes. No, it definitely was not the first, nor did it remotely occur to them that this could be their last. Everything had started as everything else usually starts-very small. Don’t the elders say that the thing that will kill a man starts with an appetite?

The children, according to their ages walked ahead. Their mother, Lumabi, like a mother hen kept watch from behind. The tears running down her cheeks were made invisible by the rain. Her heart was soaked, drowning in her own tears. Her body was wet, soaked by the tears of nature pouring its scorn on her and her children. The gods had gone to sleep, shutting their eyes and ears to her plight. She shifted the bundle on her head and propped up the child tied to her back. He was two years old, the last of five children she has born in nine years of marriage. the only boy and the source of all her misery. All this started with him. Was a boy not supposed to be the pride of his father? Why had her own fortunes turned out differently? Had she not prayed to the gods for a male child?

Wali, her husband had been happy when she became pregnant, just a few months after their marriage. He was proud to have a wife whose womb was so fertile, who didnot have to struggle like his brother's wife to have an issue. He built her a new hut. Erected a new barn in her old one. His wife must not cook and sleep in the same hut again. He will want a separate cooking space for his wife and separate sleeping space for his new child. He could hold his head high and beat his chest that he was a real man. When Lumabi had her child, he called her Bimafor, the Queen Mother. A royal title. A title of honour and he treated her with honour. She was happy that he was happy. He liked him even more for liking her daughter and for naming her after his grand mother. In those days life was good. Marriage was good. Oh! how she longed for those days. At this thought she whizzed and her shoulders sank. The bundle on her head shifted, her left foot caught a stone. she slipped on the rain soaked red soil, loosing her balance. She dropped her luggage, tried to steady herself, reaching to protect the child on her back. But at that moment the troubles of this world pulled her down against her will and she dropped to the ground.

"Bimafor!" she called out between sops. "Put that thing on the ground and come and give me a hand here." Bimafor dropped the bundle she was carrying on her head. She ran back to her mother. Her feet stamping the puddles and water splashing up her legs. She leaned forward and gripped the baby from her mother's back, pulling him gently towards her. "Are you ok mama?" she whispered, her voice quivering as the cold began to get to her. She looked down at her mother, the tears mingling with the rain and the sweat. Her eyes watered as the river in her swelled up as though the rain was pouring on the inside as it did on the outside. "Mama, are you ok?" she asked again, this time unable to hear even her own voice. She saw the pain on her mother's face. The river in her burst and the water in it came flowing down her cheeks. Salty -sweet it ran down her cheeks and she could taste it on the tip of her tongue.

Lumabi tilted herself on the ground. holding on to her daughter's shoulder she pulled herself off the ground. Bimafor, the pillar of her life stood still. Taking her mother's weight on her shoulders.

"Yes, I am ok" she said as she stood up. "I am fine, thank you. Let me have your brother now".

"I can carry him if you want me too"

"That’s ok. Let me have him. Run up ahead and take care of your sisters. Let’s get going. We will soon get there." and off she went leading the walk, heading into the threshold of tomorrow. Not sure when she'll becoming back to her father's house.

LOST ON CHRISTMAS DAY

It is Christmas again

I hear the gong from the church

It is yet another Christmas. Why does it keep coming? I am tired. I am sick. I am fed up with Christmas. I don’t want any more Christmases.

And here it goes again. The gong, I mean. Summoning the sinners up the hill to God’s sanctuary, they say. He’s the Holy one, they say. He has power and does miracles, they say. And The Father is his representative. Why do they call him The Father, anyway, when he has no children? What do i know, eh?

I look up the hill and there it is. The church, planted like an edifice for good. Perched on the hill. Overlooking the village. A vantage point. My grandfather’s hill. His land, stretching to the foot of the village. My father’s land. My inheritance! My land! My wealth!

Does God live on that hill? In that corrugated building? No! He doesn’t, I say to myself. He lives in heaven, The Father says. The Father lives in that house. On that hill. ON MY HILL.

He lives on a hill so he can be closer to God who is in heaven, i say. He lives there so he can pee on the rest of us, Mokom says. I don’t believe him. He even says we drink The Father’s urine because his wash room and latrine are on the same side as the stream that flows to the village. I still don’t believe him. The water is clean and does not smell or taste anything like piss. I know the smell of a grown man’s piss. It smells like that of he-goat. I know this because Ni Suh does it every day and I have three he-goats. Ni Suh is always going to death celebrations and funerals and born houses even for people he doesn’t know. He will follow a vehicle carrying a corpse to any village. He will follow a corpse on a motorcycle or one on a wheelbarrow. He will even push the wheelbarrow and where the wheelbarrow will not go; Ni Suh will carry the corpse on his back. His services are not expensive. He doesn’t charge any money either. He just wants to drink. The children in the village now call him Ni Ntoh. But I call him Ni Suh. He sleeps in the room next to mine in my mother’s house. He is my father’s brother.

The gong goes again and the children emerge from their houses in their new clothes and new shoes. Some white and some brown. Yellow and red mostly for the girls. Ma Philo’s twins are carrying two white dolls with silky blond hair. I wonder if there are black dolls. What do their hair look like? A balloon pops. Laughter. Shouts. Chants of “bolo bolo burst, Ibo man gain bla bla bla (the name of whoever’s balloon it is) loss”. I can’t hear the name clearly from here. Then the expected scream. A few more laughs and they emerge from the corner. More balloons. The reds mixing with the yellows and the browns. Sule comes along with his ball. He’s Hausa. What is he doing dressed in new clothes and going up the hill? Maybe he’s just showing off his new ball and new clothes. Maybe it is the food. They all troop pass me. I few waves and a few nods. Acknowledgements from my peers. My age mates. A few of them older than me. 16. Maybe 17. But they all know me and I know them. They are not surprised to see me. Some slow their steps and lower their voices as the approach. Gently, they raise their heads. Eyes locked. One or two nods, a lifted chin from them. I return the courtesy. They walk pass. A few more paces. Voices rising. Steps quickening and off they go, back to Christmas.

The church service on Christmas day is usually longer. The women bring baskets of food, the men jugs of wine, crates of beer and bottles of whisky. The village always goes up the hill to celebrate Christmas but Ni Suh doesn’t. He doesn’t drink on Christmas day either. I can hear the choir singing noel noel noel. I listen to the words. Mumble a few of them in my mind and watch as the late goers hurry up the hill. I don’t go to church anymore. Not even on Sundays.
“i have brought you a mango”, Ni Suh says, as he sits on the stone next to me.
“Thank you”, I say as I stretch my hand and take the mango from his out stretch hand.
“I have washed it”, he says.
“Thanks”, I acknowledge but he knows I will not eat it. Not yet anyway.
Papa is in his house, sitting by the fire. He listens to the radio a lot. He is always listening to the radio these days. Today he is listening to Africa number one. I can hear it through the open window. They are talking about Zaire and Mobutu. Papa has a big picture of him over the mantelpiece, dressed in his leopard print shirt and cap. Next to him is a black and white photo of Lumumba. I know them because Papa says Mobutu killed Lumumba and took over his place. I always remember them because it is similar to the story of John and Mary, only John and Mary were brother and sister. Yet John killed Mary and took away her flowers. I wonder what it would have been like for Mobutu to kill Lumumba when they were not even brothers. What i know is that one was a good man and one was a bad man. But why will Papa have a photo of a good man and a bad man? I will remember to ask him that after Christmas. Papa says he worked with both of them doing something. I am not sure what. Then there is a photo of Papa and Gowan of Biafra. Then another with Endeley next to a photo of Nkrumah in his wrapper. He looks like a woman. My sister calls him Mrs Nkruman. There are other pictures of famous people as well on the wall. Then there is the picture of mama, one of papa, one of me and one of my sister. Then there is another picture if us four leaning against papa’s white Peugeot 404.
“What do you want to do after this?” Ni Suh asks me.
“I don’t know”, I say. We resume the silence, each one with his own thoughts. Very son Mokom will come. But he’ll be wearing his Christmas clothes. Last year he came. The year before that and the year before, he came too. Father too came last year for the first time. My sister doesn’t come because she doesn’t live with us.
The church service is over now. I can see the children have started coming back to the village. The parents and the grownups will stay on the hill to eat and drink and celebrate Christmas on consecrated land. The children will return to the not so holy realms where they will indulge in games and make merry. One of the boys will come from the hill with a special gift from The Father. It is usually a privilege that The Father will pick you out of all the children to honour you with a gift. Sometimes a lucky girl will also get a gift. Some lucky mothers too, especially the ones that sing in the choir or clean the church or cook food for The Father. The boys and the girls who also wash The Father’s clothes and clean his house will also get a special gift. If you are lucky The Father will invite you to teach you doctrine and prepare you for Holy Communion. He will teach you new games and tricks to play on your friends in school. Then he will do your home work. You will also play games with him. He always ends up with his favourite song. It makes you giggle and laugh. The Father has a strange voice when he sings. He sounds different. He will take off his reading glasses and sometimes he will switch off the light. Sometimes the lights stay on as he sings
“If I touch no fear, if I touch you anywhere no fear” then he will touch you. Then he will ask you to sing to him too. Then he will tell you where to touch him.

I sit still under my fig tree and watch them. My new clothes ripped from their packaging and strewn on the bed in my room. This fig tree is where I have spent my last four Christmases. I stretch my leg to touch the wooden cross. With the tip of my finger I trace its charred frame down to the mount of earth on which it is planted. I kneel down and whisper “I am here Mama; you don’t have to spend Christmas alone”.

The end.