Category: Traditional


Akuko Ilu


Hey!
Today, we’re doing something different (again!).
So PM brought two hilarious and interesting posts to my attention and they were stories made entirely with clichéd idioms.
Check out the stories http://thisismycorn.wordpress.com/2013/02/13/cliche-touche/ and http://thisismycorn.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/the-show-must-go-on-chapter-2/
We decided I could give it a Nigerian spin so I decided to try it out with Igbo proverbs.
You are permitted to read this in Pete Edochie’s voice. Lol
Enjoy!

AKUKO ILU

Okoro woke up that morning thinking all was well in the land of the living. What he did not know was that trouble had come to break kolanut with him early in the morning.
When he heard the voice of his troublesome wife Njideka screaming his name, he knew that Ekete had revealed its buttocks in the market place.

He jumped up, tying his wrapper hastily, getting ready to face his wife; after all, the tortoise said that it always travelled with its musical instrument in case it met other musicians.

She barged into the room and with one look at her face, Okoro knew he was going to eat headache for breakfast.

He made to carry his cutlass, in a bid to escape to the farm on the pretext that he had to look for the black goat in the day time before night came but his wife had decided that morning that it was the head that disturbed the wasp that the wasp would sting.

She held on to his wrapper and screamed at him but Okoro kept his peace, seeing as it took only a matchstick to start a bush fire.

She was asking for her usual; Ego this. Ego that.

He laughed and shook his head at her. His wife was like a chicken and the chicken he was carrying on his head did not know that the road was long. Didn’t she know that present situations have taken the form of a coconut?

Ah, but he could blame no one but himself. What a young man could not see standing on top a tall Iroko tree, the experienced aged man already observed squatting on the grass mat. He had been warned by his parents not to marry Njideka but he refused and true to form, the stubborn fly followed a corpse into the grave.

He sighed.
He had to try settling her with tact because the tsetse fly perched on the scrotum had to be chased away with extreme care. Although he was physically stronger than his wife, the man who woke in the morning and found himself being pursued by a chicken ran for his life for he didn’t know whether the chicken had grown teeth overnight.

His friends always mocked his inability to handle his  irascible wife; what they called his weakness but he never minded them. Only the man who ate palm kernel in the morning understood the language of famine. Moreover, Wisdom is like a goat skin bag, every man carries his own. This was the way he chose to carry his!

He gently told her to be patient because there was no road close at hand that led to Onitsha. He tried to complain about her manners and she reminded him that it was only when a young man lacked money that he complained his wife’s manners were not good.

He laughed at her blaming poverty for her manners. Would she be any better if it were different? If the bird who had not perched on a tree gives off twenty excretions, when it finally perches on a tree, how many excretions would it give off?

She claimed she was a good person and he laughed and told her it was impossible because Dinta had not reported the lack of excrement in the forest.

After her clamouring, she began to cry, throwing herself on the floor of their room. He sighed and sat down.

She and her impossible demands.

He drew nearer to her and held her close because an adult does not sit and watch while the she-goat suffers the pain of childbirth tied to a post. He wiped her tears and told her that he could be like the rich husbands of her friends who waste money. He was only trying to count his teeth with his tongue. If he wanted to swallow a mango seed, wouldn’t he first of all calculate the diameter of his anus? He could only do the best he could.

Things would get better soon, he assured her.

She grumbled in her usual fashion but nodded and he smiled at her but in his mind, he knew she would still repeat her tantrums the next day.

After all, isn’t the yam thief carving tools to dig for yam in his mind even when you are giving him advice?

She would try again tomorrow, he knew; but for now, he was free.

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The Special Guest


Yay! It’s Friday and i have a story ready! 🙂
This was oddly inspired by the game, Temple Run. I swear i had a set idea when i started writing last night but the plot changed on its own as i typed.
Anyway, enjoy!

———————

It was a starry night and a big celebration. The community fire was higher than it had ever been in a long while. The smell of the herbs burnt in the fire enveloped the senses of those gathered. The steady ‘dum dum’ of the tribal drums could have been heard from miles away. Drummers, men, well muscled and sweaty from the exertion of beating instruments made from the hides of the strongest animals, grinned fiercely, eyes wild.
This wildness was only rivaled by the shrill ululation that came from the dancing women, responding to the beat with jingling waist movements, sweat dripping in rivulets from their skin, the colour of ebony. Thick, black hair, swung to and fro, the shells adorned on them, clicking, making music of their own. Their bare bosoms danced too, quaking at every stamp of the foot.
It was the maiden dance. The dance of the Upright Breast.
Around the fire, sat all the villagers, even the children; though a few of them were already nodding their heads to sleep’s call.
The Elder Fathers sat together, passing around a pipe and also a small cup that had been proffered to them by one of the married women, preparing the feast meal. The Elder Mothers sat, surrounded by children on the cusp of puberty. The yellow flames illuminated their faces, eyes bright, brown teeth visible. The younger men who were not part of the drumming, sat in cliques, admiring the maidens who danced to their pleasure. The laughed and pointed and called and drank.
Equally admiring the maidens were the married men, out of the corner of their eyes. Some of the maidens were going to be second wives after this day.

One of the married women, who were known by their covered breasts, came and whispered to one of the Elder Fathers. The Elder Father gestured for one of the young men. He whispered to him and the young man ran and whispered to one of the drummers.
The beat dwindled and the dancers took it as their cue to leave the makeshift stage that was around the fire.
Soon, the drumming stopped.
Hush fell.
All eyes turned.
The sound of soft singing came from beyond and everyone around the camp fire turned, staring.
The married women flanked an old woman.
Immediately they came into view, the people around the campfire stood in respect.
Gingerly, the Old Woman was led to a seat, higher than the rest where she sat down, relief flooding her face as she stretched her twig-like legs.
She turned around the campfire and smiled, revealing toothless gum.
She beckoned to one of the married women who came quickly and knelt at her feet. Few words were exchanged and with a nod, the married woman rose.
She walked to the section where the maidens sat, cooling off after their exhaustive dancing and picked five of them.
They rose immediately and followed her out.
The old woman waved a little at the drummers and the music began anew.
This time, it was a dance for all.
Children. Adolescents. Adults. Danced around the campfire, singing and humming, they did.
The Old Woman surveyed the festivity with hawk-like eyes that belied her age.
Soon, one of the maidens came out from the darkness where huts were gathered. She knelt down and spoke to the Old Woman. The Old Woman nodded and gave a signal.
The music changed.
The dancers sat down.
This was the Incoming Music.
Attention was drawn by the ululation of the chosen maidens as they came forward.
As they drew nearer, the night light revealed a figure who stood behind them, bemused.
He was a man, one whose likeness had never been seen before by the younger generation. They looked, awed at his appearance, as tall as a big tree.
The older generation who had seen his type before, gave him a cursory glance and went back to their discussion.
The strange man was seated next to the Old Woman who smiled at him, fingering the neckwear she had on subconsciously.
The old woman struggled and got up. The music ceased immediately. All attention was drawn to her.
Slowly, she spoke to them,gesturing at the strange man occasionally.
The strange man smiled; the look mild puzzlement etched on his pale, ivory skin. He had no idea what was being said.
The old woman finished and with an expansive wave of hand, the festivities continued.
Drinks flowed and food was passed to the various groups with crudely made bowls.
Two beautiful maidens were selected to look after the strange man. They ran their hands through his flaxen hair, taking turns to rub his chest, smiling demurely. They gazed into his eyes, marvelling at the colour. They thought he probably gazed so much at the skies, that his eyes adopted their blue colouring. He grinned at them, watching their curiosity with barely hidden amusement.
The herbal scent in the fire was getting to him. His head felt light. He felt invincible. A bowl of milky liquid was passed to him and he drank without hesitation.
The concoction was like heady wine. Cheekily, he grabbed one swinging breast of the maiden and playfully tweaked her nipple.
She shivered and her eyes quickly darted to the Old Woman.
The Old Woman nodded and without further ado, the maiden wrapped her hands around his head and drew it into her bosom.
Her skin smelled like honey and the faint musk of burnt wood.
He smiled as he heard her moan when he lapped on her breasts. The second maiden went behind him, hands working on his shoulders, lips and tongue, caressing his neck.
Suddenly, he stiffened and fell back, almost hitting the maiden in the process. The drink finally got to him.
The old woman raised a hand and the music stopped.
The two maidens ran back to their group.
The old woman spoke, pointing at the sleeping strange man.
The married women stood and walked to him, divesting him of the apparel he had been adorned with.
They stepped back and the young men came up and dragged him forward, to the foot of the Old Woman.
She stood up and a hush fell on the congregated group.
One of the Elder Fathers stood up and handed her a staff, his head bowed.
The Old Woman accepted.
She lifted the staff, revealing its sharp bottom end and with speed uncommon for her age, struck the strange man in the neck. Blood squirt like a fountain, some landing in the fire, causing it to sizzle.
She cackled and the whole village roared.
The music was back again.
The maidens took to the stage while the married men stood, dragging the dead strange man, who was going to be the main course in their feast.
The old woman gave them a command, pointing at the worn white neckwear she had and they nodded.
She watched them leave.
She had known the strange man was coming.
The bones on her neck had told her.
The bones gotten from the hips of men that looked exactly like the strange man, years ago, when she herself had been a suckling babe.
More were going to come.
The old woman knew they would eventually kill her people. She didn’t know when. She didn’t know if she’d be alive to see it.
One of the married women came to her, presenting a baby to her.
She touched the baby’s forehead, murmuring a blessing.
The mother smiled in appreciation as she took her baby back.
The Old Woman smiled. She smiled, even though her heart was troubled.
She was going to kill them before they killed her people; the people she had been given to guide when she had come of age to lead.

She was going to make sure they were eaten before they swallowed up her people.
It was only proper to do so.

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