(Igbo: Ji Ahuru Ahu Ya Manu)
INGREDIENTS
Yams
Chilies
Salt
Ahunji
Palm oil
PREPARATION
Cut the yam into square chunks, leaving the skin on. Place inside an open wood fire amidst the hot ashes. Roast until crisp on the outside and soft and well cooked on the inside. Mix the chilies, salt and chopped ahunji into the oil. Dip the yam in the sauce and eat.
This simple fare is considered the food of the poor, or those serving an intentional penance. The lattergroup comprises mostly women who have been unfaithful to their polygamous husbands. In these cases, the punishment meant they had to cook mouth-watering dishes daily for their husband and family, but themselves eat only roast yam and palm oil. The minimum penance is usually seven days; the most extreme can last several months.
EIGHT
When the star marks a fork on the King’s head, we have three. This marks the turn.
The study of the relationship of the number of lobes on a kola nut and its relationship to the petitioner is akin to numerology. The number of lobes indicates the energy pockets that the petitioner has and these in turn will determine the nature of their life walk and talents. The more lobes on the kola nut they choose, the more energy pockets they have, thus the richer and more complex their life-walk.
Afikpo, 1976
Oye stood at the bend, near the edge of the road, waiting for the postman. He showed up, on time as usual, with a handful of letters for her. They came from her many pen friends all over the world.
Sunday prowled the length of the porch watching Oye nervously. Big lorries came hurtling around the bend at incredible speeds, and he lived in fear of Oye getting crushed. He would not admit that his concern had anything to do with love, mumbling instead about the high cost of burying the old. Still, Elvis suspected it was love, like the time he cut himself on a rusty knife and got tetanus and there was the possibility of him dying. His father had ranted at him angrily, calling him a wicked and thoughtless child to play so roughly and cost him so much in hospital bills. Yet when he recovered, there was no more mention of the cost of his cure, astronomical as it must have been.
It was only a combination of luck and driving skill that kept the lorries from plowing straight into the house. Some of these lorries were coming to the nearby fish market, bringing traders from the towns. Others came from the brewery in the next town, delivering their quota of oblivion, their drivers tipsy enough to swig beer from open bottles as they drove, in clear view of police at the checkpoints dotted all over town. Others were crammed with market women screaming conversations above the bedlam of the engine, squabbling chickens, snorting goats and barking dogs in cages. Crying children were casually thrown in the direction of a breast to suckle quietly. They roared past, scattering dust and shouted greetings.
The frames of the lorries were built of timber. Elaborate motifs of flowers and climbing vines sprawled over them in vibrant colors, and their tailboards boasted murals: Hercules pulling a lion’s jaws apart, a mermaid sunning herself on a beach, King Kong swinging from the Empire State Building. Along the sides ran slogans: SLOW AND STEADY … HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD SHALL DIE … TO BE A MAN IS NOT A DAY’S JOB … SUFFERING AND SMILING … THE WICKED SHALL NOT PROSPER … THE YOUNG SHALL GROW.
Oye stood watching the postman’s bicycle fade into the horizon, as though she expected him to turn around at any moment and return to deliver more letters that he had somehow overlooked at the bottom of his bag. Satisfied that he was gone, Oye walked back to the house, her letters tucked carefully under her arm. When Elvis read them later, they would give off the slight scent of talcum powder.
It was summer and schools were on holiday, and Elvis was home, so she summoned him and together they made a pot of too sweet, too milky tea. While she carried the tea, he followed closely, holding the envelopes.
She couldn’t read, but trusted only Elvis to read to her. She figured he was still young enough not to be judgmental or tell too many lies. Oye had never learned how to read or write, and before Elvis was old enough, Beatrice read the letters to Oye, taking her dictated replies down in a beautiful copperplate.
Elvis enjoyed Oye’s trust. It was one of the few times when he felt needed. That sense of importance was nearly threatened when he began to come across the letters written in foreign languages. The most regular came from someone called Gretel and seemed to be in a language that could be German. When he explained the situation to Oye, she laughed heartily at his discomfort and took the letter from him.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she said, holding the letter between her palms.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading it.”
“How?”
“Ach, laddie, with magic of course,” she said impatiently. “When I hold it like this, I can make out what it’s about.”
“Then why don’t you read all the others like that?” he asked.
“Tha thing with magic, lad, is tha’ it always has consequences.”
She settled back into her wicker chair, Elvis seated at her feet. She sighed and took the letters from him. With practiced casualness, she flicked through them, choosing one. She ripped the envelope and shook out the letter, which she passed to Elvis.
“Read, laddie,” she said slowly.
He took the letter, smiling at the elaborate ritual she had evolved. He wondered what she did on school days; he imagined she prowled the house restlessly until he got back. Clearing his throat, he began.
“Dear Oye …”
Mr. Aggrey took the entire kids’ dance class to the cinema to watch Fred Astaire.
“See how he floats,” he explained. “If you want to be good at dis, watch as many of dese kinds of films as possible.”
“What about Elvis Presley films?” Elvis asked.
Mr. Aggrey smiled. “Elvis Presley too. And Indian films. Watch. Learn. Practice.”
Elvis took the advice to heart. Since the free movies never showed what he wanted to watch, he began to pay to get into the Indian cinema in the next town to watch Elvis Presley, Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire and nameless Indian film stars in order to study, close-up and firsthand, the moves of great dancers. He liked the female dancers too, but was afraid to ask Mr. Aggrey if he should learn their moves.
Elvis approached Oye days after the Professor Pele incident and asked her if he could learn the dance moves he had seen performed by the Ajasco dancers. She asked him to find out how much it cost, and if it was not too expensive, she would think about it. Two days later he accosted her as she was sweeping the yard.
“Three naira for each lesson,” Elvis blurted out.
“Watch yourself, boy! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What is three naira?” she asked.
“The dance lessons I told you about,” he said, launching into an impromptu routine, arms flailing wildly.
“Hey!” Oye interrupted him. “Are you blind? You canna see this broom? Or are you just going tae watch me sweep with my old bones?”
“Sorry, Granny,” he said, taking the broom. “Well?”