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Surviving the Scourge
It was the fifth time they Mama's funeral was being postponed. They couldn't bring her spirit home last year because of the locust and the year before because of small pox. Now the flood was the reason they couldn't complete the funeral rites and Mama's spirit will be left to wander about.
Just two market weeks ago,the rains had started. It was as if the long dry season had beaten out the moisture from the clouds and the rain came down reluctantly as a hesitant drizzle. Everybody complained;Papa, Uncle Julius,Chinedi, and the other villagers _ they said a famine was drawing near, the crops on the fields were wilting fast away, the stream was gradually drying out.
I feared also the brown of the the dust that covered every surface _ they reminded me of Mama, the pallid brown of her skin, the days before she died. I felt it so real, even when I touched the parched grass that flanked the village path, that it was Mama's skin; flaky and cadaverous. So I prayed for the rain to come in showers.
It did come in showers, one mirthless day and brought with it pebbles of white ice. We all ran out, and played loudly under the rain, picking the chill crystals of ice into broken enamel bowls to sprinkle on the walls of our hut for it was an auspicious omen, it brought good luck.
Perhaps we misinterpreted the sign _ the ice brought no good luck. They were only fragments of the walls that held back the water of the firmaments. The ice meant that the divine walls that separated the heavenly waters from the earth has been destroyed _ because the rain did not stop.
The rain poured in torrents. It fell for the rest of the day and into the next and the day that followed. The stream encroached it's banks and puddles became lakes. Wells welled up with water and soon overflowed.
After the rain came the cries. The cries of loss and despair. First, there was an influx of outsiders from neighbouring villages into ours, Ekpena. They had been chased from their homes by the flood and they were desperately seeking refuge. They were the ones who came crying.
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Just two market weeks ago,the rains had started. It was as if the long dry season had beaten out the moisture from the clouds and the rain came down reluctantly as a hesitant drizzle. Everybody complained;Papa, Uncle Julius,Chinedi, and the other villagers _ they said a famine was drawing near, the crops on the fields were wilting fast away, the stream was gradually drying out.
I feared also the brown of the the dust that covered every surface _ they reminded me of Mama, the pallid brown of her skin, the days before she died. I felt it so real, even when I touched the parched grass that flanked the village path, that it was Mama's skin; flaky and cadaverous. So I prayed for the rain to come in showers.
It did come in showers, one mirthless day and brought with it pebbles of white ice. We all ran out, and played loudly under the rain, picking the chill crystals of ice into broken enamel bowls to sprinkle on the walls of our hut for it was an auspicious omen, it brought good luck.
Perhaps we misinterpreted the sign _ the ice brought no good luck. They were only fragments of the walls that held back the water of the firmaments. The ice meant that the divine walls that separated the heavenly waters from the earth has been destroyed _ because the rain did not stop.
The rain poured in torrents. It fell for the rest of the day and into the next and the day that followed. The stream encroached it's banks and puddles became lakes. Wells welled up with water and soon overflowed.
After the rain came the cries. The cries of loss and despair. First, there was an influx of outsiders from neighbouring villages into ours, Ekpena. They had been chased from their homes by the flood and they were desperately seeking refuge. They were the ones who came crying.
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