Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History (47 page)

April 21, 1929
Aba, Nigeria

The smell was hot, humid, wet and earthy. This night, a storm poured rain somewhere nearby. Arro-yo had spent much of the evening cooking, sweeping the floors, and dragging in hunks of fragrant wood for her next series of carvings. Now tired and pensive, she nibbled a bit of boiled yam as she watched Margaret across the small plastic table. The old woman ate quickly, a meal of boiled ripe plantain and yam with stew. She was already dressed in her best outfit, leaning over her plate as she ate so as not to soil her green gold rapa with a matching top. When she finished, she smiled at Arro-yo, got up, and left.

A half hour later, Arro-yo went flying. She was restless. The air was still heavy and static, even above the low clouds. Her dress grew sticky with sweat and humidity. She circled low over Nwora’s house and considered visiting. She hovered just above the roof and saw Nwora, his father’s arm linked with his.

Nwora held up a kerosene lantern as they walked slowly around the house. Nwora’s father walked bent slightly forward, his feet shuffling under his navy blue rapa with white squares. In the near dark, the white squares glowed. He grumbled something that made Nwora smile and say, “No, Daddy, she’s not here.” He grumbled something else and Nwora laughed and said, “No, not even on the roof.”

They turned around and went inside. Arro-yo hovered there for a moment, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. She missed home. Her grandmother would probably be sitting on her wooden stool in the doorway humming to herself and weaving a basket. Her grand-uncle would be sitting outside brooding and smoking his pipe as he watched the heavy clouds pass the half moon. Her mother might be making love to her father, or her father might be with one of Arro-yo’s other mothers.

She crouched down but was not at the right angle to see inside Nwora’s home. Nevertheless, she knew the oily flicker of the kerosene lantern would be in the front room. Nwora’s father liked to sit near the door in his favorite chair and watch people walk by.

Arro-yo flew on. When she saw the small adobe house brilliant with light and loud voices, she descended. Inside was so bright that it looked as if it were on fire. Even from where she was, she saw that the house was packed. There were several women standing outside on the porch leaning forward to hear what was being said inside.

Arro-yo landed on the roof and pressed her ear to its tin roof. She didn’t have to listen hard because a woman inside was shouting. It took her only a moment to realize the booming voice was Margaret’s.

“…all saw what they did last time,” Margaret bellowed. “It was only a few years ago.” Arro-yo always thought that the best language for yelling was Igbo. Margaret’s voice easily carried to the women outside and to the skies above. Efik, Arro-yo’s native language, sounded best when sung.

Margaret continued, “They taxed and taxed our husbands and sons and fathers until they had nothing left!”

The women clapped and grunted agreement.

One woman shouted, “My sons, Okechukwu and Chinedu, were arrested!”

“Eh heh! You see? They take all the money, then they take the
men
!” Margaret said. “And look at these stupid warrant chiefs who join with the white men and sell out themselves and their own people! Warrant chiefs take wives without paying the full bride wealth! They take land that doesn’t belong to them. They take the census and act like they are just getting to know us. Humph. They treat us like we are stupid. Like bush meat! Now they want to turn around and disrespect the people
more
by taxing us women? No, we will not
allow
that!”

Many of the women shouted, “NO!”

“We are the trees which bear fruit!” someone shouted.

“And look at our men now,” Margaret yelled. She sucked her teeth. “Cowards! Look at your husbands, sons, fathers. They are not here. They are afraid of these traitorous chiefs and these white men with their guns and idiotic magic book. Are we afraid?”

“NO!”

Arro-yo leaned forward, pressing her cheek closer to the roof, her heart beginning to race.

“Our men are behaving like women, so we must behave like men! The colonial administration is still treating us like chattel, like slaves. But we are free!”

“Yes.”

“Nwanyeruwa sent us this!”

Arro-yo heard something crinkle, and then the women begin murmuring loudly. She could hear Margaret laughing.

“You all know what happened with Nwanyeruwa, two days ago,” Margaret growled. “That nonsense chief Okugo was going about taking his… census… and he came to her house where she was hard at work pressing palm oil.”

Margaret paused and Arro-yo was sure that every listening woman was holding her breath.

“He asked her to count her sheep and goats. She replied ‘Was your mother counted?’ ”

All the women laughed loudly. Arro-yo smirked.

“But then… oh then! That man seized her by her throat and began to squeeze. She is a strong woman, so she fought him off. And now it must start! Ah-ah, you see, what this means? No? This palm leaf means we’ve talked enough to these warrant chiefs who lap at the white man’s feet. It’s time for action! We will sit on that damn warrant chief until he has resigned. Tomorrow they will know that we are like elephants, marching to battle, crushing obstacles on our way!
Nzogbu, Enyimba Enyi
!”

Arro-yo flew several feet into the air, her eyes wide, as the entire house exploded with cheers and shouts and the sound of stamping feet. She hovered like a frightened hummingbird, and then she turned and flew into the sky.
Whatever they are planning, it has nothing to do with me
, she thought.

Nevertheless, her heart was still pounding. The white men made her angry, too. Always playing the role of stopping people from doing what they wanted to do. First they came and worked with greedy local men to capture people and kill them with work. Then they stayed to further muddle things by causing people to forget the deities of the forest, sky, and water. Now they wanted to tax the financial wealth away. To tax the women of the land, after unfairly taxing the men was beyond insult to the foundation of the people.

Hours later, she headed home. As she drifted off to sleep, she still angrily thought about the colonial administration. When she finally slept deeply, she dreamed of a choppy ocean, grey and white beneath a churning stormy sky. Even as she dreamed it, she knew it was a bad bad sign.

Margaret returned a few hours before daybreak. Arro-yo was in her bed trying to forget her watery nightmare. For a while she listened to Margaret moving about the small house. She even considered getting up and asking Margaret how her night was, but she did not. Instead, she fell back asleep. When she awoke, the sun was up. Margaret was gone.

Arro-yo ate a breakfast of a mango and leftover yam. She had no birds to sell today, but she wanted to buy a chicken and some plantains. She put on her third favorite dress, a long European style blue one she’d designed and sewn herself after meeting and befriending two Catholic nuns. She’d liked the length and flow of their habits. She added her own personal flair by using blue cloth, taken in the waistline so that it nicely hugged her figure and lowered the bust-line. She slung her blue satchel over her shoulder and was off. It was a cool morning and the roads on the way to the market were practically empty. A man carried a bushel of sticks on his head as he walked and another had an armful of cloth. She saw no women. When she arrived at the market, it was nearly deserted. There were few open umbrellas; no women sat shaded in booths.

“Arro-yo!” Nwora’s voice echoed through the mostly empty market as he ran to her. “They’ve all gone to the Native Administration Center.”

“Your mother, as well?”

“Yes. I… I knew she was involved. She was gone last night. I didn’t know they were planning something so big.” He took a deep breath. “I had to leave my father to come find her. Are you coming?”

Arro-yo nodded.

They heard the women before they saw them. There had to be over a thousand of them. The open area before the large adobe building was packed with so many women that Arro-yo felt dizzy just looking at them. Many were dressed in sackcloth, their faces smeared black with charcoal. They carried sticks wreathed with palm leaves and they were singing a song that Arro-yo couldn’t make out through all the noise. There were other groups of women dressed in white and red rapas and tops dancing vigorously, wooden cooking spoons in hand. Other women milled about just looking angry.

A woman’s voice rose high above all the others and immediately everyone stopped what they were doing. Margaret stood on something that raised her short body a foot above everyone else. Arro-yo could feel the tension increase and the air pressure rise. She looked at Nwora. He looked back at her and mouthed, “I don’t know.”

“What is that smell?” Margaret shouted, waving her fists in the air. “
Death
is that smell if they don’t come out and hand us that chief’s cap. When they do, we will tear it apart like the piece of nothing it is!”

Margaret’s fuzz of grey white hair stood on end, for today she wore no head wrap. Never had Arro-yo seen her look so invigorated.

“Maybe we should step back,” Nwora said.

“Death is that smell!” Margaret shouted again and another wave of agitation rippled through the audience. Arro-yo stood mesmerized by the energy before her eyes. They were only a few yards from the peripheral of the crowd. Arro-yo stood on her toes. She could easily fly up but there was already enough hysteria. She was taller than almost all the women, so she still managed to see much of what was going on. There were British soldiers stationed in front of the administrative building. They had guns. Several women were taunting them by throwing rocks and poking them with their sticks. Arro-yo smelled smoke.

“You see that?” Nwora said, pointing his stick. Arro-yo frowned at his fragile weapon, wondering when he’d grabbed it. “My mother’s in there!” he said.

Suddenly the crowd of protesting women surged forward.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Arro-yo saw Margaret fall. Then the crowd burst in all directions. Panicked women came right at Nwora and Arro-yo and he pulled her into the bush beside the road. Flames leapt from the administration building and several of the others around it. Arro-yo could see a British soldier tumbling on the ground with one of the dancing woman. She was kicking, scratching, and screaming; he was punching and shouting.

Some women lay dead or limped away injured, but just as many didn’t run from the bullets. Like crazed elephants, they ran at the soldiers. Others looted the British-owned store next to the administration building. Arro-yo saw a woman running out with packages of biscuits. The chaos continued to trample the area, but Arro-yo’s eyes only searched for Margaret. Nwora was gripping Arro-yo’s arm. He turned to look at her just as she began to rise. For a moment, his arm held tightly, then he let go, his eyes wide.

He watched her ascend, his jaw slack, madness on the road before him. Arro-yo looked down at him, holding his eyes until she was above the trees. From above, she saw burning buildings, bodies lying in the street, women fighting with colonialists, screams, sticks, cooking spoons, cudgels, palm switches, terror and blood. She spotted Margaret crumpled next to the stool she’d stood on.

Arro-yo swooped down like an attacking owl, her blue dress billowing around her as she landed.

A woman nearby threw one of the white men over her back and kicked away his gun. She pointed at Arro-yo, sweat and blood pouring down her face, and said in a hoarse voice, “Amuosu!”

“Arro-yo is amuosu!” someone else shouted.

More women looked up. Something smacked Arro-yo’s arm but she ignored it. She linked her arms under Margaret’s and quickly lifted off. She didn’t know how long she flew or where she was going until she set Margaret down in the garden beside Margaret’s house. Then for the first time, she really looked at Margaret. Her face and neck were covered with blood. A tiny red hole with singed black edges was in the center of her forehead. Her brown eyes were open.

Arro-yo touched Margaret’s face. It was still warm but the skin felt tight. She touched the old woman’s neck, her chest, her belly. Her legs were bent, limp.

Arro-yo gasped, holding her own chest. She whimpered, leaning forward to hold Margaret’s head to her belly, her shoulders shuddering. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, but that only increased the pain she felt in her heart. She opened her eyes, her jaw set. She looked down at Margaret, the woman who had opened her home to Arro-yo as a favor to Arroyo’s grand-uncle; the woman who had been her grand-uncle’s lover during a different time; the woman who had always lived passionately. She was gone.

“You have gone,” Arro-yo said to Margaret’s corpse. She got up and picked up Margaret’s body. She brought her to the front of the house and set her down inside. A sharp pain in her arm made her glance at it. Her sleeve was soaked with blood. She pushed the door open so people would come to the house more quickly. Arro-yo had no doubt that Margaret would get a proper burial of a dignified Igbo soldier.

She placed one of her blue wooden birds in Margaret’s hands. It was one of the two she’d made for herself. An owl in mid-flight. She kissed Margaret’s cheek and went to her room to get a jar. She placed it in her satchel. Then she turned and slowly walked out of the house and flew off. The town of Aba was ruined for her. When she’d taken Margaret’s body, she’d been seen and she knew she would not be forgotten. Once again she’d be labeled a witch, an amuosu
.
She knew what would come next. She did not want Margaret’s house to be burned down because of her. This time she wouldn’t even stay for the accusations.

“Nwora,” she whispered. Would he understand? Doubtful. But one thing was clear: she was alone again.

She wore her bluest dress, her beaded satchel slung over her shoulder. She stopped at the river to wash her wound. Though the bullet had only grazed her, the mark looked as if a small beast had taken a bite out of her arm. She rinsed it with water and took out the jar. She applied three dollops of salve she’d made for scrapes and cuts. It smelled strongly of mint.