Emeka

Excerpt from my debut novel The Dreams of Our Ancestors

Onicha Olona, Nigeria, 1965

When it came to surviving the “First Day of School,” she considered herself to be an expert. Today marked her first day inside a classroom after a long summer, with a new authority figure to impress — and challenge.

It seemed like another perfect start to another year at Saint Mary’s Catholic Primary School. She sat front and center, hands together at the table, with unshakable confidence. Mister Nnamdi, short and stout with a prominent grayish moustache, walked into the classroom, and without sitting down, called the children’s names for attendance.

“EMEKA!” Mister Nnamdi shouted. For some reason he said her name with particular emphasis. And that was the beginning of her downfall.

The laughter poured over her head and into her ears like an icy avalanche.

“AHAHAHA!!”

“That’s a boy’s name!”

“Emeka BOY! Emeka BOY!”

Her name was her name. It had always been so. But kids get older. Bolder. Meaner.

Emeka sank deep into her chair and remained there for the rest of the day. For the first time ever, she went a whole day without saying a word in class.

She sat alone by the school’s wooden gate that led to the road back home, waiting for her father to finish speaking with a teacher so that they could walk home together.

She watched as her father emerged from the main office, wearing a neatly pressed navy blue suit and matching tie. And of course, his signature John F. Kennedy-style haircut that she had never seen him without.

“What is wrong dear?” he asked her as soon as he joined her by the gate.

Emeka turned her face away from his so that he would not see her tears. Ashikodi caressed her head and brought it close to his.

“You have no reason to hide anything from me,” he said, softening his voice as best as he could. “Did somebody hurt you?”

“Papa, why did you give me a boy’s name?” Emeka finally asked.

Ashikodi immediately understood what had happened. He lifted her by the arm and continued to hold her hand as they began walking home.

“Dear, so that is what this is about?” he said with a solemn look. Ashikodi reached into his pocket and pulled out a greenish gray note.

“Emeka…” he began. “I want you to tell me…how much does one pound cost?” he asked, holding the currency up to the sky so that the hot African sun kissed it.

Emeka rubbed her eyes and sniffled. “One pound, papa. One pound is one pound.”

“But how do you know it is worth that much? Because others tell you so? Because that is what others are willing to accept in exchange for something else, no?” Ashikodi said, then paused. “But what is the actual value of this green piece of paper. What does it actually mean to you little girl, if others were not willing to accept it?”

Emeka frowned and Ashikodi smiled. Then the father laughed as he watched his daughter’s frustration grow before an unanswerable question.

“That’s right,” he said at last. “It’s true value, is nothing. We have created a world that will tell you otherwise, but you must never forget that this right here, is just paper. The things that really matter in this life, you cannot buy.”

Ashikodi pointed to the sky. “Like the sun.”

He spread his arms out wide, palms to the sky, closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. “Like the air.”

He put his hand on her heart. “Like love. These are the precious things that truly matter in this life. And they matter because they have infinite power, belonging to all of us and none of us at the same time.”

Ashikodi then rested his hands gently on Emeka’s shoulders. “Your name is a precious thing, dear. Your name comes from one of your ancestors, and you are his dream come true.”

Ashikodi smiled again. “It is time for you to learn the story of your name.”

* * *

WHEN THIS BABY GIRL was born on Easter Sunday, her mother and father were not quite sure what to name her. Names in the Igbo tradition carry a great amount of weight. They could not just name her any name. It had to have meaning attached to it. Her name had to connect to the unique being that she would grow up to be. For several days, they contemplated a new name for this new incarnation of life.

Only days old, she cried uncontrollably. Neither hungry nor tired nor scared, she cried and cried to no end. Ashikodi, the girl’s father, and Onyeje, the girl’s mother, were at a loss for what to do. After several sleepless nights, Ashikodi took the newborn girl to his sister Akune’s home. Akune took one look at those crying eyes, and marveled at how bright they were.

“Like diamonds,” she said. “This little girl cries, but the shine in her eyes tells me that there is something special about her. We must go see the elders.”

Ashikodi and Akune visited the elders in their house, the girl’s great grandfather Ibemenem among them, and they concluded that this unexplainable disturbance in the newborn could only have one cause.

“Emeka the Blind,” one of the elders said, shaking his head and kissing his teeth to make a sound that was heavy with regret. “He was not buried properly. His spirit is still fighting.”

Ashikodi remembered seeing the elderly “Emeka ‘ello” as he was commonly known, every day in the village square, always wearing the same, simple brown cloth. Blind since birth, Emeka lived alone, as all of his immediate relatives had long since passed. A day never passed by in Onicha Olona where Emeka ‘ello couldn’t be heard saying that familiar word in that distinctly high-pitched voice of his.

“’ello!”

It was his way of knowing his direction. Whether a prancing child, an okra carrying mother, or a fellow elder, when someone passed by Emeka ‘ello, his greeting was always the same.

“’ello!”

Emeka ‘ello was a simple man of simple means. He disturbed no one. Like the bread shop owner or the seamstress, he was an established part of the scenery. One simply expected to see Emeka roaming around, taking in all the sounds into his seasoned ears. His every “‘ello” so common, that it blended into the ambience, as seamlessly as the children’s laughter, the dog’s bark, and the drum’s beat.

Then one day, Ashikodi no longer heard that familiar sound.

“It was a sad day when I learned that Emeka passed,” Ashikodi said, reminiscing to the elders. “But then I was filled with joy for I thought of how happy our ancestors would be to be greeted by his special hello.”

“Son, that would normally be true,” one of the elders said. “Except, because his body was not properly buried by his family, his spirit cannot join the ancestors.”

Akune, getting up from the round, drum-like seat she was sitting on, said defiantly, “We all feel sorry that Emeka died alone, but what does his death have to do with my brother’s daughter?”

The elder got up, went over to Ashikodi, his face full of worry, and gently took the newborn in his arms.

“You see these eyes. These beautiful, crying eyes?” the elder asked them. “These are the eyes of a girl reincarnated by a blind man. But just because a person cannot use their eyes does not mean their spirit lacks vision. Through this little girl, Emeka’s spirit is blessed to see all much clearer, much sooner than others. It will be her privilege to show the entire world the way.”

The elder placed the little girl, still crying hysterically, back in Ashikodi’s arms.

“But his spirit will keep on fighting you — her — if his body is not buried properly,” the elder said at last, walking back to his seat.

“None of Emeka’s relatives are still alive,” Ashikodi said while looking at his daughter. “For the burial ceremony to take place, are we not required to have one of his family members there?”

“Emeka lives on in your daughter now,” the elder said. “She is his family now. You are his family now. Go to his home, find out where he was buried, perform the sacred ritual. It does not matter that his blood relatives are not there.”

The elder looked at the little girl once more. “What matters is that you bury him as though he was somebody. Do him that final honor, and you will set his spirit free.”

Ashikodi and Akune gathered their entire family in the departed home of Emeka ‘ello. They danced and danced and danced. And they shouted his name.

“EMEKA ‘ELLO! EMEKA ‘ELLO!”

This went on all night until the moon was high up above. They felt his spirit. They felt the presence of a man who was somebody.

And then suddenly, they heard it.

“’EEEEELLLLLLOOOOOOO!”

Just like all those days in the village square. They heard that famous sound roll down like water from the sky.

“He’s with the ancestors now,” Ashikodi said to Akune, smiling.

As soon as the ceremony ended and Emeka’s body was properly buried, the little girl stopped crying. Those bright eyes would not cry again for a long time. They were too busy seeing the future.

At that moment, when Ashikodi realized that the ritual worked and that Emeka ‘ello’s spirit was free, he knew what name to give his daughter. He took her into his arms, her eyes as bright as the moon above, and he spoke her name to her for the first time.

“Your name is Emeka — Chukwuemeka — God has done something great.”