God of Mercy Read online

  But the people did not hear the birds singing or praying. It was evening time, and the people were eating in their red-clay homes; and Nnenna, not having any firewood, went to a neighbor’s compound to borrow some, then proceeded to cook yam for the compound of Ọfọdile. And when the water began boiling, she called Ijeọma to her side and began checking her plaited hair for loosened threads; and as she plucked at her strands by the light of the firewood, Nnenna leaned into a fragrance pouring forth from Ijeọma’s hair: the sweet smell born anew after thundering and rain. A smile had settled across Nnenna’s lips—Ijeọma, who Ichulu thought was powerless and weak, could fly. She could stand above any height, and look down upon the entire village, standing with an authority given by the gods. And she knew there would be few who would mock it, few who would call it strange, but those few were the kind of villagers Nnenna deemed more godless than anything else, the kind who did not truly see Idemili in the water, and Igwe in the sky, and Anyanwụ in his great sun. Ijeọma could fly, and Nnenna believed it was the gods who made it so.

  “Ijeọma, is it true? Can you fly?”

  Ijeọma nodded three times, smiling.

  “How, Ijeọma? How is it possible?”

  Ijeọma pointed at her right eye.

  “I do not understand,” Nnenna said with confusion. “Fly now. Show me, fly for your mother.”

  Ijeọma left Nnenna’s side and jumped four times, slowly nodding her head twice, and seeing that, Nnenna began to lose her smile. But Nnenna lifted Ijeọma with an embrace, as if she had arms as broad and thick as wings, believing that nothing would ever worry her again, that the things she most relished—pottery and cocoyam, truthfulness and integrity—would always be at hand, across every season and within every moment. But a memory seized her—Ọfọdile. She knew the habits of the one called her husband, and believed his pursuit of honor gripped the throats of his thoughts and actions. It surged when Ijeọma was born, then died once they discovered that she could no longer speak.

  Nnenna pulled Ijeọma to the earth and sat with her, enclosing her tightly, rubbing the back of her hands. She continued thinking of those days, many harvests ago, when Ijeọma would lie in her arms withdrawn, beaming mostly at the sight of the one called her father and refusing to be peaceful if he was not nearby. Even as an infant she looked like him, and Nnenna remembered each time Ọfọdile asked how his face could be in the face of this little child. “Idemili has taken it from his river water,” Nnenna would say, and she recalled how brightly that would make Ọfọdile smile.

  When Ijeọma learned to walk, Ọfọdile followed her steps, steering her from dangers that were not there. When she began to eat food, he scolded Nnenna for not checking the meals for small rocks and bones, an act Nnenna found romantic. It was then she knew that his love for Ijeọma was boundless like a wanderer looking upon the nighttime sky, and she believed that only a power vaster than the heavens of Igwe could quell Ọfọdile’s love for Ijeọma.

  But at the age of one, Ijeọma began to cry; and recalling it moved Nnenna to hold Ijeọma tighter, remembering again how Ọfọdile told her that he would go to Igbokwe’s compound each morning, collect potent remedies, and offer prayers to powerful gods. But nothing brought relief to Ijeọma; not even a petition to Chukwu saved the crying child. And after the passing of three weeks, their newborn daughter could no longer make any sound.

  Nnenna’s heart now tightened at the memory of the village wanting to throw Ijeọma into the Evil Forest. Igbokwe intervened, pronouncing that her voice had not been taken by disease but stolen by an evil person, a person whom he did not then know. And once Igbokwe had made his declaration, Nnenna held the one called her child in her arms and watched Ọfọdile’s esteem fall as quietly as a leaf falling from a palm tree, listening to them become the mother and father of the mute.

  He will truly hate her now, Nnenna thought, while passing a finger through Ijeọma’s hair. And she began offering soft prayers to her chi: that Ọfọdile would soon love their daughter again, that Ọfọdile would never see Ijeọma fly; and her tongue became tense when she smelled the yam burning in the pot, just as Ọfọdile walked into the compound, carrying the corpse of a young antelope strung around his neck.

  “Welcome,” Nnenna said, hurrying to meet Ọfọdile after she removed the pot of yam from the firewood.

  Ọfọdile said nothing in reply.

  “Ọfọdile, I am cooking yam porridge for us to eat.”

  “That does not smell like yam porridge,” Ọfọdile said.

  “But I have also fed Chelụchi.”

  Ọfọdile remained silent.

  “There is another thing that I must tell you,” she said. “It concerns our daughter.”

  “What is it?” asked Ọfọdile. “Is Chelụchi ill?”

  “No, Ọfọdile. Ijeọma can fly.”

  “What?”

  Nnenna looked at Ọfọdile calmly, as if he should have already known the fact.

  “Ụzọdị came earlier, and told me that he and many other people saw Ijeọma flying.”

  “I do not believe it. When the food is ready, send it to my obi.”

  Ọfọdile dropped the dead antelope at Nnenna’s feet, then went into his red-clay home, rummaging through Nnenna’s words. It must be Amalike, he thought. They took her voice, now they are giving her the ways of wild animals.

  He moved through his obi, professing that it was not true—then knowing it was—and letting the words of his mind move him to action: Ekwueme. He decided that he would take Ijeọma to Igbokwe the next day, and stood with ease in the middle of his obi, finding great promise in his plans.

  He heard two claps and saw Ijeọma carrying his food and a bowl of water at the mouth of his obi. He did not speak to her as she entered, but he looked at the way she placed the dish full of yams and the bowl of water in front of him, and the enthusiasm with which she waited for his instructions, and thought it all to be sickening, finding it regrettable, beckoning her to leave with the dismissive flutter of his hands. Then he washed his hands to eat his food and thought of those words he would tell Ichulu’s dịbịa, hearing his own voice, imbued with much confidence, echoing throughout his mind.

  3.

  EARLY ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, before Anyanwụ called the sun to rise, everyone in the village had heard of Ijeọma’s levitation. Ọfọdile had risen quickly, though, to chase the rumor out of the village before it reached the people’s eyes, reasoning that while sound bred speculation, sight sealed truth; and the truth that his family was not an abomination was what he wanted Ichulu to know. He hurried into Nnenna’s red-clay home and told her to prepare Ijeọma for her consultation, and once Ijeọma had emerged, he snatched her arm, nearly undoing her dark blue rappa, and hurried them along the path to Igbokwe’s compound.

  While walking atop the eroded earth, passing weary dogs and injured cassava leaves, Ọfọdile and Ijeọma crossed paths with Nwagụ, a member of Ọfọdile’s age group. And Ọfọdile quickly remembered how the village had called him lucky and adored him in their childhood, especially the elders, who had given him the name Nwakaibie for being favored among their peers. Whenever an animal was slaughtered and its entrails distributed, it was Nwagụ who would receive the largest share and would sometimes receive parts of the cooked meat. As he looked past Nwagụ’s eyes, Ọfọdile recalled that Ichulu now said that Nwagụ’s luck was kept alive because Mgboye, the one called his second wife, was expecting to give birth to their fifth child.

  “How are you, Ọfọdile?” asked Nwagụ with a broad smile, his black-and-white chieftaincy fan fluttering in his right hand.

  “It is well, Nwagụ … let us talk … another time, since I must go quickly.”

  “But you know that our elders say that one does not recognize a black goat at night. Morning is the time to greet one’s brethren.”

  Ọfọdile quietly sucked his teeth. Trapped by the proverb, he allowed himself to stay with Nwagụ.
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br />   “Ọfọdile, I have heard that this daughter of yours”—he looked down at Ijeọma when he said daughter—“has been flying with the birds.”

  “You … have, heard it … but did you, see it … with your eyes?”

  “You are right, my friend. My eyes have not seen it. But there is no problem. I am sure you have heard that Mgboye is expecting to have another child soon. I pray that it is a boy.”

  “May the gods hear your prayer,” Ọfọdile said quickly.

  “They will hear it. I know they will. And you, what of that son of yours, Nnamdị?”

  Ijeọma listened to Ọfọdile respond, heard Nwagụ respond again, and looked at both men, seeking to resolve Ọfọdile’s discomfort as she thought of things—quickly she thought of them: pouting, running—and then she crossed her legs, tightening her thighs and fists.

  “Nwagụ,” Ọfọdile said, “It seems as though … my child wants to urinate. Let us … talk again, in time.”

  “Let it be, then,” said Nwagụ, “Fasten yourself to power.”

  “Fasten … yourself to power,” Ọfọdile said.

  And the two were turning, each moving away from the other, while Ijeọma ran behind a tall palm tree and pretended to urinate. She squatted to the earth with her blue rappa raised to her hips, counting to twenty to make her ploy believable. When she rejoined Ọfọdile on the path, hoping that he had not recognized her deceit, she signed to him that she was finished by brushing her hands together; and when she saw his brow unfurrowed and his high cheeks unmoved, she believed them to be signs of the full success of her plan, believing that Ọfọdile was quietly rejoicing at her craftiness.

  Soon, she and the one called her father both stood on the earth of Igbokwe’s compound and watched the dịbịa engage in his morning prayers. Only a white cloth covered Igbokwe’s body, sitting softly below his waist as he raised and lowered his arms, straight toward Igwe’s clouds, straight beyond Chukwu’s lofty sea, to the rhythms of his murmuring lips, suddenly pointing at Ọfọdile and Ijeọma and honoring them both with a greeting.

  “Ọfọdile and Ijeọma, welcome. I have been waiting for you.”

  “So you know why I am here,” Ọfọdile said.

  “I do,” said Igbokwe. “It does not take the wisest of men to know that Ekwueme does not want his daughter flying.”

  “It is true,” Ọfọdile said. “Please … tell me what is causing this to be?”

  Igbokwe lifted himself while wrapping the white cloth around his waist, then walked toward Ijeọma to search her eyes for any evil. He blew air into them, which made them tear, and drank the droplets which fell forth. Then he took her arms and legs and examined them for foreign things, things like lumps or bruises. He found nothing, and moved to draw a circle along the earth by the tip of his iron staff.

  “Ijeọma,” the dịbịa said, “walk around this line.”

  She obeyed, and Igbokwe saw nothing unusual in her motions.

  “Ọfọdile, I must speak to the gods. Your daughter must come into my obi so that I may speak to them properly.”

  “It is well, Igbokwe … let me go and check my traps … to see if I have caught anything … I do not want my meat to rot … my wife will not cook it, if it is rotten … I will return soon to see what you have learned.”

  Igbokwe commanded a pause between them, remaining silent as he looked through the black of Ọfọdile’s eyes.

  “A man who believes his chi is sleeping has already died,” the dịbịa said.

  Three nods was the response Ọfọdile gave, before he left the dịbịa’s compound and reached into his bag for his containers of snuff.

  Ijeọma watched him go and wondered why he did not stay, wondering, too, why he seldom stayed—not when she was sick—not when she was scared—not when she wanted him present; leave, was what he always did. She wondered if it was for growing, or for weaning, or for another thing, wanting Ọfọdile—coming from Ọfọdile, without him, she believed she could not be. Though he does not speak to me, she thought, and why, because if he could speak with me, the way he spoke with Nnamdị, if he could babble with me, the way he babbled with Chelụchi, if he heard of my flight through my speech, he would believe, he would know that my flight was something beautiful. But Ijeọma could not speak, so he did not speak; and Ijeọma could now fly, and she wondered what Ọfọdile would think of it.

  “Ijeọma, enter my obi,” said Igbokwe, whispering as he spoke, watching Ijeọma enter timidly, then seeing her eyes moving across the many things in his obi: the decapitated heads of women and men, the benighted symbols on his obi’s walls—written with his fingers and blood.

  “Do not be afraid, my child. The gods only want me to understand why you are flying. Have you heard me? Do not be afraid.”

  Igbokwe saw her nod three times, and he nodded three times also. He turned to his wall to take a goat-horn cup and began drinking the water within it. Then he sat on the earth of his obi’s floor and called out the names of Ichulu’s gods.

  “Amadiọha, Ikenga, Igwe, Anị, Ugwu, Idemili … Chukwu beyond the sky, Chukwu the all-powerful, Chukwu the all-knowing, the Supreme Being, the one who is everywhere and everywhere … Can you hear me? Can you hear your child speaking? I ask you because I do not know if yesterday you decided to discard your ears. You are my gods; if you discard your nose so as not to smell, who am I to question it … You have heard. I know it in my heart that you have all heard. Bring peace to this obi of mine. Hear the concerns of your child, and bring ease. I have come to gather the seeds of your wisdom … Did you not speak to me, in the morn of yesterday’s sister, through the winds and skies? Did I not hear your words echoing through the soil of Anị? I ask that you speak again. You know what has happened to this child of Ichulu who sits before me. You know her, and have known her—even before she left the loins of Ọfọdile and entered the womb of Nnenna. Put what is known into my own mind, so that we, too, in this world may understand.”

  Ijeọma listened to the way in which Igbokwe prayed: the firm timbre in his voice, his unyielding honor for the gods, the simplicity of his spirit—which made truth feel true—feeling the prickly dots passing through her shoulders—moving her to trust Igbokwe’s words and heart—then quickly—she saw Ụzọdị’s eyes within her—He must not have anger for me; how can he have anger, if he escorted me to my father’s compound and explained to my mother that I was flying; Ijeọma smiled at what disproved Ụzọdị’s love to be unrequited, smiling with wide lips and teeth, asking Chukwu to strengthen him in the Place of Osu, to bring to him the vision she had seen in the sky, past the clouds of Igwe.

  And as Igbokwe prayed, he lifted the horn containing his cowrie shells and began shaking it, then cast the shells atop his obi’s ground. He read the patterns before him, deciphering every word the gods had spoken before picking up the shells again and putting them in the horn, throwing them, and casting them three times more. And when the message remained unchanged, his face rose bewilderingly.

  Me! I must be loved! I must be loved!

  How is this possible, Igbokwe said to himself. Chukwu, the greatest god of my people, is this true?

  Ijeọma smiled with her lips and with her chi, a beam of light resting, now, on her forehead; she thought of Ụzọdị as her eyes looked toward the sun, past the roof of the obi, a tear now falling from her chin.

  “It must be true! What the shells have told me is true!”

  Igbokwe watched Ijeọma, and could not deny that joy had taken her as she sat peacefully in the air as though fear had hung itself from a tree; and so he laughed, he could not prevent himself from laughing, filling his obi with awestruck cackling; and though the message left him slightly disquieted, he could not find worry beneath Ijeọma’s shadow.

  And when he heard Ọfọdile’s footsteps approaching him moments after Ijeọma returned to the ground, he left his obi quickly, not wearing any reassurance, not seeing Ọfọdile’s face fall hopelessly.

/>   “Ọfọdile … my child, my child.”

  “What has happened, Igbokwe? What is the problem?”

  Igbokwe took time to gather his words—words he had thought would never be said together.

  “Ọfọdile, I read my cowrie shells. I read them well. Chukwu, the greatest god of our people, is reclaiming power. Do you not see? The reason your daughter can be lifted to the sky is because Chukwu is recollecting power from Anị—and has been doing so for many months now. Your daughter, who many thought should have been thrown into the Evil Forest to avoid the judgment of Anị, is the vessel Chukwu is using to speak this message. Anị and Chukwu—the gods who once knew harmony—have disagreed through the body of your mute child. Do you not see it? When she flies, she moves upward … toward Chukwu and away from Anị. This was why Idemili and Igwe, the husband of Anị, conspired with our enemies to punish us with the evil water that came. Ichulu is the only village worshipping Chukwu as Chukwu wishes to be worshipped. Now the goddess and her friends are vexed at us and the Most Supreme because her power is no longer hers.”

  “How do we know that she truly flies? Only a few people claimed to have seen her.”

  “Ọfọdile, she was sitting above my head when you were snorting your snuff.”

  “Could it not … have been a spirit … you were seeing?”

  “Are you calling your daughter a corpse?” Igbokwe asked.

  “I have heard you … so how can we, stop her from flying again?”

  Igbokwe widened his gaze. He could not understand why Ọfọdile would deny his words. This was not a mere possession or curse: the gods were at war.