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SEE ME SMILING
“He who leads a bitter life of selfishness will die reaching out for what he failed to give.”
“He who leads a bitter life of selfishness will die reaching out for what he failed to give.”
The struggles of life can range from many different things, within many different ranges of difficulty; whether it is our relationships with our families, the struggles of our marriages, or simply dealing with each passing day. However, it is not the issues that we have that define how our life goes on, but the decisions we make in order to resolve them.
The sun sets upon a small Igbo village, emanating a beautiful orange sky that embraced the horizon like a mother embraces her child. The sphere of light sunk halfway beneath the tips of the trees and casted a shadow upon the Obis and huts of the denizens. They begin to retreat to their homes and families, happiness surrounding them like an aura. But one man remains a guest at another Obi, his goatskin mat laid out upon the floor. Calm speech emerges as whispers to the outside, but reverberates against the dirt walls of the inside loud and clear.
Two dark-skinned men sat across from each other in a peaceful debate. They contrasted each other, one appearing thin with a belly that was slightly swollen. It looked as though he was between the point of starved and malnourished. The other man was somewhat hulking, muscular and healthy with no swelling visible upon his stomach. It was obvious that these two men had had much different results this year for their crops, the harvesting time having ended.
The thin man spoke up. “I still envy your sowing, I do not know how you have achieved a surplus crop every year while mine can carry barely a third of what it should have. Six hundred yam seeds and I end up with one hundred and eighty. Perhaps I have angered the Earth in some way.” The other spoke in return, “You have just been unlucky these past two years, Okwukwe. But you will prevail perhaps even greater than my own crops if you hold to your namesake.” Okwukwe smiled as he remembered the meaning of his name being ‘Hope’, a slight sparkle in his eyes. “Perhaps that will be so. I cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Uzoma. You have been a good friend to me in my times of failure, while others have pushed me away.”
Uzoma began to wrap up his goatskin and shuffle to his feet. “That is what friends are for, Okwukwe. The lizard who fell from the high iroko tree must be caught by the kindhearted.” With a nod, Okwukwe wrapped up his own goatskin and struggled to his feet, his other hand grasping a bag full of yams. “You are the kindhearted, Uzoma. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. I will return your generosity with pots of palm wine after my next tapping.” Uzoma waved his hand to decline his offer. “I ask for nothing in return, my brother. Ebelechukwu.” Uzoma walked off and Okwukwe returned the goodbye. “Ebelechukwu.”
By this time, the sun had vanished beneath the horizon and Uzoma walked home on the dimly lit paths. Rays of moonlight poured gently along the village, inviting the cripples to walk. But Uzoma was not afraid of those he would pass by, and instead sprinted on with his charity illuminating his chi. While it was not visible, it could certainly be felt, he thought.
Arriving to his Obi, Uzoma paused before stepping in. He gazed at his compound in the dark of the night. Uzoma had only one wife, and as such, one hut outside of his Obi. Uzoma was one to bend the rules of society, however. He would allow his wife to stay with him in his Obi, not thinking it correct to put her out in the weather, protected only by a small hut. He would have her sleep within the larger home, at least until they would have a child.
But lately Uzoma had been staying out due to struggles with his marriage. It had been arranged, and she was one of the few who were very unpleased with being unable to choose their husbands. One of the ones that believed cowries was not love. Even with all of Uzoma’s efforts, he was unable to please her. This only escalated when he avoided her for long hours of the day.
Stepping into his Obi, he received a sudden stinging pain upon his cheek. An imprint of a hand was red on his skin, slowly fading away as the yelling began. “Where have you been? Do you think I’m going to do all of this by myself?!” The soft, feminine voice that Uzoma so dearly wished for was instead a rather guttural roar that pained his ears. The one person that he cared about the most was someone that he could not bring to peace. “What is it, Kambina? What is it today that I forgot to do? Sow your cocoa-yams? Do you not realize the purpose of a woman in a household?” Uzoma’s voice remained low for now, but his patience was being pushed. She went to strike him again and his hand met hers, a tight grip causing her to wail and kick him in the shin.
Uzoma took the blow, keeping his ground. “I won’t ask you again, what is it?” He threw her arm down, hurting her being the last thing he wished to do. Beatings were not something Uzoma enjoyed, and he had only done it once. But the next words stung more than her hand as she wailed out at him. “You sorry excuse for a man! You sit out all night at some dying fools’ house instead of seeing me! Even the Egwugwu called you pathetic in court, and they were right! Even the people here dislike you! They look upon you with distaste and you are forced to spend your hours with a failure! Outcasts! And I’m stuck married to YOU!” She turned, storming off out of the Obi’s second exit to her dark hut and quieting.
Uzoma stood for a moment, and then stepped quietly over to his bed, sitting down on the edge and starting to contemplate her words. Ah… That’s right. Even the Egwugwu told me of my failures, but I paid them no mind because I know who I am and what I’m capable of. … Was I a fool all this time to think I could be different? Uzoma turned and lie down on his cot, closing his eyes and folding his hands on his stomach. Maybe in the end I was meant to be alone. Even through all my material successes… is my chi killing the people around me? Uzoma drifted off into the night, his emotions reaching their capacity.
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A rooster crowed and Uzoma opened his eyes to the smell of hot yams. He was surprised his wife was actually preparing breakfast as he stepped out of bed, standing up and walking over to the low clay table he had crafted. Sitting down on his knees, she soon entered his Obi with the bowl of sweet smelling yams and set it down in front of him, along with a bowl of bitter-leaf soup and a small pot of palm wine. Uzoma, when home alone, drank directly from his pots rather than a horn. A habit he had developed from being alone for years. When not fully structured other than your own practices, you tend to develop workarounds and shortcuts to the more complicated processes.
He went to eat, raising a single bite of his yams to his mouth when he received a striking smack to the back of his head, causing his hand to fly down and spread the yams across the table. He snapped, and erupted into a rage. Fingers clenching the small table, he threw it across the room and the bowl of yams landed upside-down while the Obi was painted with the soup and wine. His wife opened her mouth, “You don’t even thank –” but she was cut short by a fist pounding directly into her jaw. She was sent down onto the floor, and he kneeled over her, rocketing fist after fist down into the woman. A savage beating taking place as she screamed, but nobody would come to save her from the war she had started.
Stopping for only a moment, Uzoma bellowed down at her. “You are not above me, woman!” She turned, hatred upon her brow as she threw more words with the tips of spears. “I wonder if that’s how your father felt when he died cold and alone!” Uzoma’s eyes widened and he had no response, only the rage seeping from his fingertips as a hand reached back and claimed the bowl of yams. He held it by the bottom, looking down at his wife with only few words to spare. “If you like your yams so much, you eat them.” He slammed the bowl down into her face, the clay shattering and cutting her skin through the thick food. Uzoma stood up and grabbed his machete and goatskin bag, slinging them both over his shoulder and walking out of his Obi. “I do not need you, woman. I will live alone.”
Uzoma paced angrily back into the paths of his village, brushing past others who gave him a confused look. Usually Uzoma was one to walk slowly and take his time when going from place to place, enjoying the presence of others around him. But now the air of anger that surrounded him was evident and none attempted to stop him. Uzoma only ever went to four places, his Obi, Okwukwe’s Obi, his farm, and the market. Other than that, he spent little to no time in any other place. The most time was spent with Okwukwe and his farm, due to his wife causing such issues at home.
Approaching Okwukwe’s Obi, several thoughts ran through Uzoma’s mind. My brother can make this better. I can stay in his former wife’s hut tonight. I am already seen as pathetic; why not push the title even further for all these unappreciative people? His steps brought him to Okwukwe’s Obi, standing at the entrance as he took the first step in. . I do not need these people. I do not need the market or cowries. I can support myself, and that is all that matters. Uzoma saw Okwukwe sleeping on his bed and walked over, reaching to place a hand on him to wake him up. Such was a rude thing to do, barging into another man’s Obi and awakening him from his rest, but the two were so close of friends they had done it to each other and knew when it happened it was urgent. . I can tap my own palm wine, I will sow my own seeds, and I will tend to my own household just as any woman can do, but better. May the Earth forget all those who think I cannot. But as his hand lay to rest upon Okwukwe’s body, he was cold and unmoving. A light smile was upon Okwukwe’s face and Uzoma was stopped dead, his angered thoughts halting and his heart skipping a beat. Several shakes were to no avail in waking the man.
Uzoma released him and noticed something in his friends’ hand. There was a piece of bark with an arrow carved into it, pointing towards something on the other side of the room. Uzoma turned, and the wall was lined with four pots of palm wine. There were also several other pieces of bark with carvings detailed into them. Uzoma took several steps, all of the emotion draining from his body as he gazed upon the images left behind by Okwukwe.
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The first picture was of a large man handing a smaller one what appeared to be a full sack. The next carving being the smaller man showing thanks and then there was a final. The final one showed the smaller man once more, but this time it appeared he was standing on a cloud, waving down. Uzoma realized the message left behind from his friend. The words echoed in his mind. You have shown me generosity that no one else has shown me in my lifetime, Uzoma. For this, I cannot help but return it with what little energy I have preserved. Forgive me for not being able to meet the same amount you have shared. And as the words rolled off into his mind, Uzoma felt for a moment as though Okwukwe was still there, talking. Persevere, Uzoma. You are the one that will show them that failure can be the ultimate success. Uzoma picked up the final carving, and turned to his friend, nodding before sprinting back to his Obi.
His eyes twitched with the need for release, but no tears would dare flow down his cheeks. Uzoma stepped into his Obi, and tore his war dressing from the wall. A beautiful suit of decorated feathers and leathers wrapped together. He placed it upon himself, his wife having already left back to her hut by this time. The Obi was still covered in soup and wine, but that was of no concern to Uzoma now. With his fittings on, he placed the bark in his goatskin bag and hanged his machete at his side. The bag swung around his shoulder, he also grabbed an axe and a bowl, shoving them both into his bag. Marching out of his Obi, he turned and gazed upon the village, his brow furrowing. “They can all suffer by themselves. This society does not appreciate the good men it tosses away.” He then ran far out of the village and into the brush of the forest, disappearing without a trace into the world around it.
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It was a month since Uzoma’s disappearance. Just as expected, he had left unnoticed. Okwukwe had been dead in his Obi for a week before anyone took notice of his absence, and his burial was an unattended one. Uzoma’s wife left for home, with Uzoma’s disappearance marking the breakup of the marriage. For abandoning his village, Uzoma was exiled, just as he wished to be, now that he roamed the landscape. Life continued on in the village the same as before, with just two less men occupying it.
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None.