God of Mercy Read online

  “Ọfọdile, I do not control the gods. I am only their messenger. My medicine receives its power from them. I will inform them of what you have told me, but if you can pray to your chi, pray. Ask them to speak to the quarreling gods, and plead for a quick resolution.”

  “Igbokwe … I have heard your words …”

  Ọfọdile beckoned for Ijeọma to come to him, and the two quickly left the dịbịa’s compound.

  4.

  IJEỌMA WOKE TO NNENNA CHANGING into the rappa that Nnenna would wear for the morning. The cocks had not yet crowed, and the dew-covered compound was still dark; but Ijeọma stood from her sleeping mat and looked on inquiringly at the one called her mother, wondering where she was going, hope resting in her eyes.

  “Ijeọma, I am going to Nwagụ’s compound. They have said it is time for Mgboye to deliver her baby.”

  Ijeọma raised her brow, laughing within the silence of the morning, nearly forgetting that she had dreamt of her return to the sky, of black nza birds lifting her to a vision in the clouds. A child was being born, and the delight of it tickled her the way she tickled her infant sister, as though the day would never end; laughing more gleefully at the thought of playing with the coming child, she moved, pulling on Nnenna’s arms: pleading.

  “Ijeọma, you cannot come with me,” Nnenna said. “You know this is only for those who have given birth.”

  Ijeọma’s gaze fell at Nnenna’s pronouncement, but she conjured the strength not to complain, understanding Nnenna’s reasoning like every child in Ichulu understood it, knowing the village sacrificed much to protect its traditions. She raised her eyes and released Nnenna’s arms, deciding, then, to consider other things: to return to bed, to wake at another time and clean the homes of the ones called her mother and father, to take a bath, and to sweep the leaf-filled compound; then she would pray to Chukwu—jump toward the Most Supreme and pray for Chukwu to make her fly again, and greet her vision in the sky, and thank the Supreme Being for giving her what she wanted, and thank Chukwu, thank the Most Supreme, for bringing me upward again, for giving me life to sweep the compound, and go to Idemili, and clean my mother’s home, but take me up—and for that mama of mine, and Mgboye’s baby, thank you, take me up again today, past Igwe—mama of mine, mama of mine; you will see me sweep the compound; and bathe at Idemili; and honor his water; greet Mgboye and her baby, greet them, and as Ijeọma signed to Nnenna, Nnenna said that she would do those things: that she would tell Mgboye and her newborn baby welcome.

  Then Nnenna carried her belongings and met Ezinne at the center of the compound; she was wearing a purple rappa, while Ezinne wore the one for which she was well-known, a golden one that matched the light brown of her clean-shaven head. Together the two traveled to Nwagụ’s compound to bear witness to the birth of the one called Mgboye’s fifth child. They passed the sleeping compounds as they went, and passed, too, the many sunken paths and fallen trees felled by Idemili’s flood; and when they arrived, several women were already gathered at Mgboye’s red-clay home. Adaọra, the eldest among them, fed Mgboye warm udala to remedy her bleeding, while the others sang the promise that her pain would soon be forgotten as her screams echoed throughout the compound, alarming the goats and causing the calla lilies to shiver, and the women continued to encourage her with prayers, then good words, words like the crowning of her baby’s head, and the appearance of the baby’s umbilical cord; and with a powerful scream, she pushed its body through her own as he opened his mouth and joined in her crying.

  “Chei! Let it not be so!” Nnenna shouted.

  “I pray it is not so,” Ezinne said.

  All the women gathered, looked into the child’s mouth, and screamed. The child had teeth—four on each row—and they knew that such a child was an abomination to the goddess of the earth and would soon be thrown into the Evil Forest. And they cried out for mercy and leniency, seeing that Adaọra would fulfill her duties, when her face remained stolid as she presented the child to Mgboye; and they cried out again, like the crackling of lightning, once Mgboye looked down to see what the others had seen, breaking into tears, weeping bitterly for the one called her son.

  “I was going to call him Chukwujekwu! I was going to call him Jekwu! Aaaaaaaaaa-yeh-yeh-yeh! My chi! What have I done! What have I done!”

  When Adaọra had finished cutting the umbilical cord and cleansing Nnenna’s body, she took the infant out of Mgboye’s arms and into Nwagụ’s obi—then dodged a clay pot which Nwagụ had thrown furiously, nearly striking the elder. Not knowing where he was, nor what he had become, not knowing if any thing or one could be true—as life had not forged the beauty he thought it should make, possessed by fury, Nwagụ, the one who found luck through his chi, began lunging his fists through his obi’s walls, craving to destroy it.

  When the mourn had passed, Nnenna and Ezinne returned to Ọfọdile’s compound and told him of the birth of Nwagụ’s son. And he felt pity for the man, though he heard a song of glee resounding through his head; he dismissed it and thought of the child, knowing that before night had come the infant would be collected by Igbokwe, cry many cries, and then die of starvation inside the Evil Forest. He felt sympathy dwelling within himself, and honored the obligation of visiting a grieving man—waiting for Anyanwụ, the god of the sun, to stand in the middle of the sky before traveling to Nwagụ’s compound. And once he arrived, he witnessed the man’s sorrow, merciless and unrelenting, sorrow as wicked as an envious god, his broad smile no longer with him, his face loose and heavy like a sagging rappa. This cannot be Nwakaibie, Ọfọdile said within himself, this cannot be Ichulu’s luckiest man. And he sat down with Nwagụ, and joined him in breaking kola.

  “Nwagụ, I have heard,” Ọfọdile said. “All of us in Ichulu have heard of your son, and it worries my worry. No man should ever know this kind of suffering.”

  “Thank you, Ọfọdile, but because of your daughter I am not yet defeated.”

  “Who is that … are you speaking of Chelụchi?”

  “No, I am speaking of Ijeọma,” Nwagụ said.

  Ọfọdile’s fingers immediately began trembling as he turned his face from Nwagụ’s.

  “Ọfọdile, I am speaking of your Ada.”

  “What … are you, saying?”

  “I am saying that when Igbokwe came to my house to take the baby into the forest, he told me that it may not be permanent. He told me that Ijeọma’s flying was caused by Chukwu taking power from Anị. He told me that if my son lasts in the Evil Forest for four days, it means that Chukwu was ending the conflict, and that sacrifices to appease Anị would not be necessary. If Jekwu survives this week, he will be allowed to return to my home.”

  “Is … your … word … good?

  “Yes, my word is good. Had it not been for you, Ọfọdile, my child would not have any hope for life. All we can do now is pray that he lasts in the forest.”

  “I will tell … my household … to pray, for your child. I must go now … Tell your family, that I greet them.”

  “I will do so. Fasten yourself to power,” said Nwagụ.

  “Fasten yourself to power,” Ọfọdile said as he left the obi, hurrying along the eroded path winding toward his modest compound; the words that Nwagụ spoke yielded a mighty wind, storming throughout his mind, tossing the present about like dust, making him oblivious to his feet atop the earth and the verdant landmarks guiding his return home; he was lost in it—walking as bewilderedly as a lonesome rat, wanting to cry out, but nobody was there with him on the sunken path, and nobody, he thought, would understand, or share his shame lest the windstorm bury them; there was nobody there to tell Ichulu that he had finally accepted that his firstborn daughter was an abomination.

  “Nnenna, come here!” Ọfọdile said, once he had stepped into his quiet compound.

  “What, what has happened?” asked Nnenna.

  “Ichulu has fallen! Ichulu has fallen!”

  “What do you mean?”

&n
bsp; “Nwagụ has told me that Ijeọma has saved his newborn child.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. He said that Igbokwe will keep the child in the Evil Forest for one week because Ijeọma is flying. If the child survives, the child will be returned to his family.”

  “That child will die! That little child will die of starvation!”

  “Woman, is that what you heard! Do you not see that her flying is giving this village trouble? Our forefathers have always worshipped Anị; now your daughter’s abnormality is challenging the goddess.”

  “Ọfọdile, Chukwu has done this to our daughter. She is a child with blessing.”

  “I see that you are becoming foolish! Go! Continue what you were doing. I have told you what I wanted to tell you.”

  “I will go. But if you call me foolish again, I will use the blade that I use to cook your food to cut off your tongue. And if you ever deny our daughter, calling her mine alone, that blade will cut off another thing.”

  Ijeọma saw the one called her mother moving away from Ọfọdile, having heard those words they spoke to each other, a river as long as Idemili moving down her face—not falling amid their words, but from one salient truth: in a fearful forest, a baby would painfully die. So she rushed toward the little space between Nnenna’s home and the wall enclosing the compound, and although the thin patches of grass tickled her dusty feet, and the wind wiped the droplets from her face, the horror of the baby remained, grieving the footholds of her mind; Chukwu, where are you, she said within herself, wanting a levitation to ease her with its joys—wanting it to dip her into the Evil Forest to lift the child and fly toward refuge. But she did not control when she left the earth. Chukwu did. So she resigned her words to prayers, prostrating herself on the orange ground, ignoring the ants crawling along her legs, and ignoring the anticipated voice of the one called her mother, scolding her for dirtying her rappa.

  That their belly would remain full, and that the mosquitoes would not bite them so much, were wishes for which Ijeọma prayed, and that the baby would sleep throughout their time in the Evil Forest and dream dreams of happiness, and for their teeth, their little teeth, that they will grow big and wide and make the most beautiful smile in Ichulu, and Mgboye and Nwagụ, what mother and father live as their child dies, and let them not curse your name in anger, Chukwu, let them not curse your name, give them hope, and the baby, too, are they sleeping in the forest, are they crying in the forest, what did that baby do, it was their teeth, but we have them, too, the baby had them early but there are some who do not have them at all, let me see them for myself, their smile, their evil smile, that baby can smile already?

  Ijeọma laughed softly into her dusty rappa in realization of what the village failed to consider: the baby smiles; and this baby who had not breathed the air of the open world, or watched the lizards dance their silly, jerking dance, lay in an evil forest for smiling in the womb of the one called their mother. How can they let them die, she thought, wiping her face, then raising herself to a new thought of aiding the little one. She pressed her feet into the compound’s earth, knowing the thought to be true: she was the one to save the smiling child from death.

  DIARY ENTRY #931 DATE UNKNOWN

  Chukwu where are you? I have been waiting for you to feed me in this prison cell. It was Igbokwe who told me of his dreams where yam fell from the sky in a barren place. The place had no harvest and no food. But there was yam coming from your hands. I know there is a reason for this dream. I know Igbokwe never dreams in vain. I know this; I know it must be true. So please feed me Chukwu. Please feed me because I am hungry. They’ve given me water but it is not enough. I need food. Human beings need food. And I have not cleaned at all. My waste is packed all around me. Can you not see it? Do you not smell it?

  Chukwu please! Don’t let these wicked people take my life. They are evil, worthy of nothing but your punishment. Don’t let them triumph over me, but save me from them. Strike them down, all of them. They are starving me and I am hungry Chukwu. Please, I am hungry. I ask of you to feed me. Give me bread. I need bread Chukwu. Even if it is just a little. I will manage with it. I will survive with it. I know you will do it. The one that raised me to the sky will not deny me bread.

  5.

  THE BRANCHES OF ỌFỌDILE’S ORANGE tree hung low as their ripened fruit reached for the distant earth. The stout chickens in his compound looked upward at those embryonic suns, bobbing their heads and wondering if their beaks could penetrate those thick, golden skins. The feathered beasts did not wake the compound with their crows.

  “We have lost time!”

  Ọfọdile awoke to the smell of goat dung and ripening fruit, and to the fright of losing his consultation with Igbokwe. He entered his obi, where he quickly prayed a prayer to his chi and offered palm wine for the ancestors to drink, pouring it into a wooden bowl. Then he ran, hurrying through many hungry mosquitoes, and rushing into the darkness of Nnenna’s red-clay home.

  “Nnenna, wake Ijeọma, and prepare her for the consultation. Quickly, quickly, quick!”

  “I have … heard … you,” Nnenna said as she rolled on her mat. “Ijeọma … Ijeọma, rise, rise,” Nnenna said while rolling onto her back; but then she felt Ijeọma patting her shoulders, and turned to see her already prepared for the morning.

  “Ada of mine, you are beautiful. Go and follow your father outside.”

  Ijeọma obeyed and joined Ọfọdile, and the two began their journey to Igbokwe’s compound. She shook her hands to greet him and wish him well, though he did not respond, as he seldom responded. So she blamed her muteness and began blaming herself, believing it to be her fault—because if he could speak with her, the way he spoke with Nnamdị, or babble with her, the way he babbled with Chelụchi, he would smile at her, and greet her, too; but then she doubted herself, her intuition and reasoning, believing her thoughts were wrong, believing that if she could greet Ọfọdile with her signs once more, he would wish her well. And so she did, signing, then signing again, over and again, signing over and again, without her father seeing her, without the one called her father knowing that she wanted to be seen; and when her chest began aching more than her moving fingers, she folded her hands and looked upon a squatting nza bird.

  Ọfọdile had not seen her but spent the journey to Igbokwe’s compound battling his own thoughts: the war between the gods, the one beyond human measure, causing floods and exiling sons, burdening his already burdened life. He wanted his snuff. He wanted his containers while convincing himself that Igbokwe would soon remove the curse upon Ijeọma, even if he had not seen any change in her after weeks of divination. The one called his daughter had not flown since her first consultation, and it was in that absence that he had placed his hope, planning to keep his consultations with Igbokwe until the curse was broken, saying over and again, while walking past the walls of other compounds, “No man … knows which, blow will break … the coconut.”

  “Ọfọdile, how are you?”

  Ọfọdile silenced his whispers and turned to see the barren Ngọzi balancing a large basket on her head while greeting him with a smile.

  “I am … well, Ngọzi. Are you off, to the market?”

  “I am,” Ngọzi answered, wondering at Ijeọma’s falling tears. “My groundnuts were not destroyed by Idemili and his flood. My husband was the one who helped me harvest them, and was the one who found the strength to build a good barn. But it is Chukwu and his chi that we are thanking.”

  “That is fine,” Ọfọdile said, before scratching his leg from a mosquito’s bite.

  “Look at that, it is early and it seems that hunger is hungering you. Take some groundnut.”

  “Ngọzi. We are to meet Igbokwe soon.”

  “Do not worry any worries; I will share them quickly quickly quick,” Ngọzi said while placing the large basket on the ground and removing the light yellow cloth that covered it, exposing thousands of gray-shelled groundnuts harvested by her hands. She took
a ceramic cup, filled it with produce, and poured it into Ọfọdile’s palm.

  “Is it not good?” Ngọzi said to a silent Ọfọdile. “My Ijeọma, I have not forgotten you. Give me your hands so I can give you groundnut.”

  Ijeọma slowly obeyed, placing her hands in front of Ngọzi and watching her fill them with a morning meal—as their fingers touched—and a wild vibration ran through Ngọzi’s body.

  “What is this?” Ngọzi said, dropping her cup and clutching her waist.

  “What happened?” Ọfọdile said.

  Ngọzi was silent, and searched Ijeọma’s eyes deeply, as if they would save her from the beginnings of madness. Her breathing quickened, then slowed as she watched Ijeọma look plainly through her as if nothing had occurred, as if she had not felt the bright and wild vibration.

  “What did you do!” Ọfọdile said to Ijeọma.

  But she did not answer Ọfọdile’s accusation.

  “It was nothing,” said Ngọzi. “It was nothing that happened. You should hurry and go and see Igbokwe.”

  Ngọzi lifted her basket and hurried to the market, feeling the shock’s vibration warm her insides, relishing it and surrendering her fears to its warmth and pleasure. A nut had fallen, but she did not see it.

  But Ọfọdile saw unease in the barren Ngọzi and did not believe her word to be good. There was a problem, and he believed Ijeọma was its cause. He moved to the front of her and knocked the groundnut from her hands, clutching her chin and twisting her face toward his.

  “It does not concern me that a god has befriended you … as worthless as you are,” he said through his teeth. “It does not concern me at all. If you disgrace me again in the land of my father, you will see the other side of Idemili, the part where even the alligators do not tread. It will be these … my own hands that will put you there. Know it today.”

  Ijeọma believed him. She was a child who believed what was said the first time it was said, so she believed by Ọfọdile’s words that her death was more valuable than her life; it was the truth, she thought, even as an ache formed inside her, traveling through her stomach and up her chest and curdling in her throat. The ache would not leave her, even as she straightened her back and feigned an assured walk along the orange path.