This Story Has No Voice
First came laughter then discipline followed. None of them asked for this but they needed to bear witness and be used without seeking their opinion. Unfortunately, it was how things worked.
Before the birth of Jideofo, his grandmother, Nne Ochuli had had some sort of vision. In her vision, she was instructed by Chukwu that Jideofo, who was still swimming in the womb of his mother, surrounded by fluids and a nutritive placenta, was never to speak throughout his entire existence on earth for his tongue would bring death upon those who would be the recipients of his utterances. His father laughed and laughed at the prophecy of his wife’s mother but his wife was not having any of it. While not being a staunch Christian, she believed visions and prophecies were gifts from Chukwu and he who was such a benevolent giver would have no reason to lie through another human being, least of all her mother. This vision her mother saw in the eighth month of Jideofo’s formation caused her to worry, her health deteriorating faster than yoghurt left in a freezer untouched by electricity. Her blood pressure spiked, malaria became a regular visitor and her feet were twice the size of women who were heavy with child.
Vera. You need to calm down, was what her husband Leviticus said, reassuringly.
“Nothing is going to happen to the baby. He will speak well and if he does not, I believe it is Chukwu’s plan to show himself strong in his life and he will. Just give birth and let Him take care of the rest.”
It was tough, but Vera scaled through and within the next month, Jideofo was born, a healthy boy whose only crime was crying louder than the shrieks of distressed monkeys. His parents saw this as a sign that maybe mama’s vision was a façade, a lie from Ekwensu to disrupt their peace and home. Mama, however, had a cast-iron certainty that she was not lied to.
‘Every child cries, Vera. Every child cries.’
At age 5, Jideofo refused to speak when asked questions — only choosing to point to an object or person that was befitting of the question. ‘Where is your mother Jideofo’? He would point towards the bedroom or the kitchen or the backyard where his mother usually picked melon seeds for the preparation of egusi soup, his favourite. Vera’s fears resurfaced like a dormant volcano from hibernation.
“Our son cannot speak! Our son cannot speak Levi!” was all she kept screaming into the ears of her husband who sadly did not know what to make of the situation.
Jideofo’s parents took him to everyone they believed could help. Doctors, supposed speech shrinks, pastors, dibias and random people who claimed to have the medicine which would cure their son’s disability. It was seen as a disability of course. ‘How can a child not be able to speak when nothing is wrong with him?’ Vera constantly asked in a tone that carried both disbelief and marvel. It was not until Jideofo was twelve that his parents decided they could not do anything about it. If no man could cure this disability, this indeed was the work of Chukwu to show forth the manifestation of his glory in their son’s life. This was a test and it was what they chose to believe. It was the easiest to believe.
A Saturday that showed the sun’s glory — after the previous night played host to a mild rainfall complemented by thunderstorms — was the day destined for a miracle. Jideofo’s mother had gone to the market to deliver firewood she had prepared at dawn for sale, leaving only Jideofo and his father in the house. Jideofo was in his room drawing cartoons he had seen on the television at Mazi Okocha’s video store when his father sneaked in his lover from the place his mother called ‘home for uncultured women’. He heard the giggles this lover made supplemented by sighs of pleasure — the kind his mother made when his father touched her like he was doing to this stranger. The entire escapade lasted for a while, after which the lover sneaked out quietly through the back door just as she had come in. After her departure, Leviticus straightened his clothes, removed the excesses of his lover’s hair from his and headed to his son’s room to summon him for breakfast. He knocked twice, called his son’s name before entering. Jideofo raised his head from the piece of paper on which he was sketching Mickey Mouse’s delightful face and spoke to his father.
Leviticus was shocked like a bird on a livewire. His eyes brightened like the sunlight which reflected violently in his son’s room but these were not eyes one would describe as a depiction of happiness. They were defining the discovery of bitter truth, a betrayal that could not be forgiven.
“Breakfast is ready” was all he said as he walked out and closed the door.
When Vera returned from the market, the sun was preparing itself for slumber. On her way home, she had been daydreaming about having a cold bath and a good night sleep after a torrid day at the market that saw women who needed her firewood nearly rip each other apart for a piece of nature’s finest gifts. She had sold everything, as expected and now rest was needed. Entering the compound, she found her husband waiting at the front door.
“Dim. what is it? Why are you standing outside?”
“Who is your Dim? I said who is your Dim, you whore?!”
Vera was shaken. She and Levi had traded insults in the past but they were insults that brought cheer to their hearts. It was, of course, on one of those days that Jideofo was conceived.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Whore! Where have you been? You think I don’t know you were with Zimife right? I knew this your firewood business was a sham. Do you think I would not find out you are sleeping with Zimife? Do you think such an abomination would escape the little hairs in my nostrils?”
“Taaa! Leviticus shut up there. I will not take this insult from you. Have you lost your senses? Do you think I would sleep with the one who helps me bundle the wood? You must be drunk this evening. Biko! Stop this nonsense and let me enter my house.”
“Which house? Vera, you are going nowhere. You will return to your father’s village this instant and report yourself to the elders for questioning.”
Vera began to laugh. It was the kind of laughter that believed it was all a joke and Leviticus was pulling her legs. But what this laughter did not see was the act of violence inflicted by Leviticus on her face; this laughter did not see the meeting that was called with both families being present. It did not visualize Vera standing her ground on how her husband was possessed and how this possession was causing him to speak such fallacy — along with Levi’s anger at this insult Vera was spewing in his presence. It did not believe that Levi would beat his chest to display such manliness, a giant battling for a noble cause and proclaim that he would not sleep in a house where a whore resided — neither did it think Leviticus would pack his belongings and leave, ignoring his wife who at that moment was crying profusely, begging him not to leave her and Jideofo. After all, what concerns did laughter have with the trepidations of its executor? For its only function is to demonstrate its executor’s reaction to wonderful news. It does not perceive itself as an actor in the play of man’s unfortunate events.
Six months later, the town was permeated with news that Leviticus had been found dead and naked in the home of uncultured women. His throat had been slit by another man who deemed it necessary that he pay for the only crime he was guilty of; giving more love than he could to his preferred courtesan. When Vera heard the news, her delight was beyond expression. While she danced around the house — her body controlled by some sort of cosmic energy — singing songs in merriment for Chukwu had given Onwu the auction to remove the source of her pain, Jideofo came out from his room. He made signs with his hands to Vera who had ceased dancing when she heard his door open.
“Mama, why are you dancing?”
“Hmm, my son. Your father, the one who rejected us, that vermin of a man is dead and I am celebrating!”
“Mama, are we not supposed to cry when the people we love die?”
Vera looked at her son. Such innocence, a naiveté mirroring one of a confined nun.
“Yes, we are Dim but if the ones we love abandon us and hope that we rot in the wilderness, we have every right to celebrate. No weeping. No regret. We shall only celebrate. E nu ga? Have you heard?”
And that night was a signatory to the last conversation they had about his father.
On the fifth month of the fifteenth year signaling Jideofo’s birth, his town Umuokuku had a dispute with a neighbouring town Umuozoma after one of its inhabitants was murdered and left by the river Amara which served as a border between the two towns. Rumours circulated as instant as hell could scorch a feather by people who alleged to have seen someone from Umuozoma perpetrate such atrocity. This enraged the inhabitants, especially the young boys who wanted to restore parity by raining fear and carnage on Umuozoma. The kidnappings of children, youth, and the elderly increased rapidly; some were found either dead or in a worse condition than they were when last spotted. The chief set a five pm curfew for the foreseeable future until the issues between both towns were resolved and in the night, the police kept watch to ensure that no criminal activities were transpiring.
It was at this time Jideofo’s voyeurism peaked as a teenager. He wanted to swim in rivers, climb the udala trees at Mazi Ikenne’s farm and pluck the sweet ones at the very top of the tree. He wanted to play with friends, go on mini adventures and if he had the chance, he would reach the stars, crisscross the galaxies and marvel at its grandeur. His mother, knowing the son she had was somewhat lenient towards his curfew. All she asked from him was information as to where he was going and what he was doing but when a child’s body was found, carrying visible marks of torture and molestation, Vera’s protection around her son stiffened like the skin of a gooseberry.
It was days after this ill-starred incident Jideofo and his federation of friends unanimously decided it was a good day to climb the hill where at the very top the sun’s beauty was compared to none. The climb was frightful as expected but getting to the top of the hill was sweeter than the physical exertion they had encountered. The celebration continued — the singing and dancing so loud it blocked their awareness of time and it was not until seven pm they realized curfew was broken.
Amidst the revelries on the top of this hill, Vera was losing her mind at home. She could not comprehend why Jideofo had chosen not to return before five and with each thought, the worst was conceived; became a second child of hers, the spawn of all things dread. When time had settled at seven-fifteen, her son tore into the house, his young body filled with exhilaration at the startling day he just had however when he saw his mother’s face — the kind of face she instituted when her temperament had lost its patience with him and decided to unleash fury without wavering; the kind one would call a mother’s exhortation — he knew he had strained his mother’s nerves once again.
“Jideofo. Where have you been?”
He knew his mother hated lies. In school during religious studies period, he had been taught that lying was for the devil and God loathed lies and liars. But that never stopped his friends from lying to their parents whenever they wanted to get their way and be free from the shackles of parenthood. Osita, one of his good friends called it ‘keeping the peace.’ He did not know when his hands failed as he explained where he had been and what he had been doing that made his return two hours and fifteen minutes later than the curfew.
“Ehen! So Jideofo you were climbing the hills and enjoying your life while I was here losing my mind with worry? Is that so?”
His dismay at the inquiry made a home on his face. Should he nod vertically or horizontally? Which would temper the wildfire scorching within his mother?
“I see you have taken the stupidity of your father. I will exorcise it from you this instance. Kneel and face the wall.”
Jideofo joined his palms together in a way that implied a plea for justice to be tempered with mercy and forgiveness.
“Jideofo son of Leviticus! I said kneel and face the wall!”
Vera dashed to her room and was out with the canes she had bought the previous day when Nne Ifeanyi had no twenty naira change to give her and instead offered her two of what she called ịdọ aka ná ntị siri ike, the disciplinarian.
‘These children are spoiling day by day Nne Jide. You will need it. Trust me.’
Vera had rejected of course but Nne Ifeanyi was persuasive. Plus, Vera hated leaving her change with Nne Ifeanyi as there was almost no way of getting it from her.
She walked back to where her son had taken a position, an unfledged nestling open to the grip of a falcon; began to dish out the discipline he merited with two canes joined together by a rope. This was deliberate. This was to make sure Jideofo learned not to be like his father, to remind him that his mother was in charge and rebellion was not going to be condoned in this house. With the wails of her son — each lash descending on his body so zealously, making his pleas louder — Vera believed he would remember all these and thank her in the future for guiding his path. The discipline stopped after an hour. Vera’s anger had been given free rein. Tranquillity was restored.
“I am going to pick melon seeds for the soup I will be making. Go inside your room and clean up.”
Jideofo, sobbing uncontrollably, managed to lift his body and staggered to his room. In the kitchen, while Vera picked the melon seeds to make Jideofo’s favorite soup, she felt shame at the extreme punishment she had given him and the soup was what she hoped would serve as an apology. In the process of preparation, Jideofo hobbled in pain to the kitchen to meet his mother with eyes inflamed and fleshly bits of evidence elucidating his pain, he called his mother’s first name. The melon seeds plummeted from the hands of Vera and scattered all over the kitchen floor.
“Jideofo. You can talk? Chi mo! You can….”
Jideofo spoke again but with superiority this time.
For Vera, the impossible had been made possible, a permanent problem now a miracle. Chukwu was justified and that in itself was a relief. Vera’s awe swiftly became solemnity. She hesitated for a moment as if reminiscing past flashes and lamentable choices then she finally spoke.
“Hmm, anything you say Dim. Anything you say I will do.”
She sunk her feet into her rubber slippers, walked to the backyard where the generator was kept. Picking up the petrol she had gotten for the night, Vera emptied the keg all over her body until she was soaked like she had been in the rain for too long. Coming to the backyard, she had carried a box of match sticks with her. The box had been kept on the generator as she soaked herself in the essence of the petrol, its fumes stinging her nostrils. She picked up the match sticks, lit one sluggishly and looked at her son — the pride of her womanhood, the only source of happiness she had managed to give to the world — her son whose pain she could feel so intensely when she whipped his back — who was now looking at her with a smile she had not seen him give her since he was a toddler twirling whenever he had a bath.
“I love you Dim. I love you.”
She let the lit match stick touch her wrapper as the flame commenced the consummation.
