Ugomma’s Departure

❦

UGOMMA’S LIFE CHANGED THE DAY she returned from school, and after lunch, her mother told her a suitor was coming to ask for her hand in marriage. It was a sharp turning point in her life like she was a sailor of a ship where a fierce wind blew and redirected its course.

Nne Adaora, an elderly woman, who sold palm fruits at Afo-Ubali, had come to visit Ugomma’s mother; her second son and his kinsmen will come in a fortnight to ask for Ugomma’s hand in marriage. When her mother broke the news to her, Ugomma suddenly realised why Nne Adaora had been nice to her for a while and was always willing to pay extra every time she took palm fruits to the house, and had not very long ago come over twice in the afternoon, peeping through the window to see if Ugomma was there. Ugomma wasn’t looking forward to marriage. She did not know of any other time that she had enjoyed going to school better than this time. And though she did not know how it would happen, she was looking forward to going to the university and becoming an accountant. But Ugomma also understood that it was her mother’s wish that she get married. And because Nne Adaora was like a mother to her, she could not outrightly refuse the proposal. This became for Ugomma, a genesis of tumultuous thoughts.

That evening, sprawled in her room, as she struggled to eat her night food, her thoughts dispersed to so many places, and in her head, she carried out many permutations of how her life might turn out. She wanted to continue with her education. She knew her mother was poor, but it was not news that there were many people who acquired an education in spite of their poverty. Could she continue going to school as a married woman? At 19, she was just beginning to envision the kind of future wished for herself. After eating dinner and having her bath, she returned to the room, heavy with thoughts and drifted to sleep. But she woke up suddenly and it was as though her heart was afire with unresolved questions, as though as she slept, the trouble in her heart brewed and stirred her up from sleep, and she remained awake until cockcrow.

In the morning, the birds perched on the ogwu tree and cooed, and having woken up a bit later than usual, Ugomma heard the sound of a broom sweeping the floor outside, where from her window, she saw that it was her mother sweeping. She got up from the bed and went outside.

Olamma saw on her daughter’s face as she came outside, that she was not all happy.

“Ugomma nwa m, is there any problem?” Olamma asked, furrowing her brows.

Ugomma shook her head.

“Tell me, my daughter, what troubles you?”

Ugomma was quiet.

 “Ada, gwa nu m ihe n’eche gi uche.”

 “Mama,” Ugomma said, “I do not want to get married.”

Her mother’s concerned look collapsed into helplessness. And now, Ugomma was without an atom of doubt that her mother wanted the marriage for her, and that had been the reason for her complaisant behaviour since the evening of the previous day. Her mother had been showing extra care and noticing every change in her mood, and this morning was sweeping the house, which was Ugomma’s duty.

“Mama,” Ugomma said, “I will not marry now because if I marry, I don’t know if I will continue my school and I don’t want to stop going to school.”

“Ugomma my child,” Olamma said, placing both hands on her chest, “is it that you do not want to get married or you do not want to stop going to school?”

“If I get married, have I not stopped going to school? Is that not the next thing?”

“Ah ah! Who told you that? Obiageri, who was your English teacher, who trained her in school? Or my sister Chinemere, who is a nurse, was it not in her husband’s house that she became a nurse?”

“How are you sure that the person who wants to marry me will put me in school?” Ugomma said.

“Ah, you will see with your eyes, my child. At least, let them come, so you can see for yourself, inu?”

Ugomma walked towards her mother. “I just don’t want anything that will make me leave school.” She moved to collect the broom from her mother. “Let me complete sweeping the house.”

“No, my daughter,” Olamma said, “let me finish it. Go and have your bath, so you can go to school, inu?”

All through that day in school, Ugomma was distracted by the uncertainties that now faced her. She was like one about to go into a wild jungle whose route she did not know. She could not shake that fear that getting married now was like jumping into the sea when she was not yet sure she could swim. She had never looked forward to getting married. Her father, before he died, was always in one dispute or another with her mother, and now, for the first time in her life, it seemed to her, she was about to be thrown into that life just before she was done with secondary school.

She became more sensitive to everything which surrounded her; the school surroundings, her classmates, and indeed all that happened around her, than she had ever been before. The greenery of the field caught her eyes more, revealing a beauty of the school she never before imagined it had. When her schoolmates who knew her called out to her and greeted her, it seemed to her to be with more fondness than usual. When she listened to her teachers, she was suddenly able to notice their effort in making students understand their teaching. Even Mr. Oba, the economics tutor who she never liked, as he stood, teaching them the Elasticity of Demand and Supply, she was drawn to the passion in his tone, which on most days, she thought was lousy. She felt all these emotions deeply because even though she was in school that day, her heart had overtaken her with emotions of departure. So before thinking of leaving this all behind, she was already feeling nostalgic.

On the way home from school that day, the weight of turbulent emotions was still raining down her gut. She felt as if she needed to let something out, perhaps, a loud wail, or to vomit; she desperately needed to force out something from her body so she could feel lighter. But she couldn’t do that in the crowd of people going home together, as they passed Omadi on their way home. She was walking next to Nk’iru, her friend, and so she held Nk’iru’s shoulder, not as a friendly gesture, but because she needed to lean. Nk’iru made it even better by wrapping her arms around Ugomma’s shoulder. “Nne,” Ugomma said, “you know all those times you were asking me in school why I was quiet, and I kept telling you that nothing was happening?”

“Yes,” Nk’iru said, turning to look at Ugomma, their faces so close to each other’s.

“Something was happening.  There is something that troubles my mind,” she said gazing downwards.

“What is that?” Nk’iru said.

“My mother wants me to get married.”

“You said what?!” Nk’iru said, a pulse of shock coursing through her body, forcing Ugomma to release her grip. Nk’iru asked in a low tone, “Does she not want you to go to school again?”

“She said he will send me to school.”

“The person who wants to marry you told her so?”

The question made Ugomma realise that she did not even know how her mother came to that conclusion. “I have not seen the man,” she said.

“But your mother has seen him?” Nk’iru said.

“I don’t know,” Ugomma said.

“But you said your mother told—”

“I know what I said. But I really don’t know who has seen each other, or what they have discussed. I have been thinking about it all day and it troubles me.”

“I knew something was wrong in school today,” Nk’iru said, as they got to the T junction where they went their separate ways. They paused as other students went past them. Ugomma stood arms akimbo, her gaze on the ground, as she dug the soil with her foot.

“Tell them you are not getting married,” Nk’iru said.

Their eyes met. “Mmhmm,” Nk’iru said, “what do you want me to tell you? You are not happy about getting married; tell your mother you do not want to get married.”

What Nk’iru was asking her to do was very much what she wanted to do. But she also realised she couldn’t, because from a place of empathy, she already knew that getting married was a way of lifting a bit of the burden of strife her mother had undergone singlehandedly in the past years.

“Or do you want to get married?” Nk’iru asked.

Ugomma realised she had been lost in thoughts. “I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”

“So, you want to leave me alone in Egbuoma?” Nk’iru said.

They both laughed as they shifted from the road to dodge a motorcycle coming from behind them.

“So this is why you don’t want me to get married,” Ugomma said. “Because you don’t want me to leave you alone?”

“Yes, and you are not happy too.”

“I am still thinking about it.”

They were both quiet for a short while, Ugomma, not being able to make up her mind, and Nk’iru, having heard what troubled her friend, unable still to get a definite answer from her.

“When we meet again in school,” Nk’iru said, “will you tell me what you decide?”

“Yes,” Ugomma said, “I will tell you.”

Ugomma’s suitors came the following week. In preparation for their coming, her mother Olamma took it upon herself to tidy the whole compound, plaited Ugomma’s hair, an all-back hair style that was so tidy it exposed in tiny lines, her fair scalp and outlined her round face.

That morning, Ugomma stood inside the room, staring at her image for what seemed to be a long spell of uncertainty. She did not know what to make of the image of the young woman who stared back at her, nor could she shake off the feeling she had, of a little girl who was about to be taken from a mother willing to give her away.

The door opened, and from the mirror, Ugomma saw Ogadimma, her youngest sister, come in. Ogadimma was the fairest of the five children in their family of fair people, and as Ugomma watched her younger sister’s image from the mirror, it seemed where she stood was lighted up a bit by her complexion. Ogadimma stood by the door, watching the mirror from afar, her hands crossed behind her back as she leaned on the door. Then she walked to Ugomma. “Dee Ugomma,” she said, “why is your face like this? Is your husband not coming again?”

 “You know you like asking nonsense questions,” Ugomma said. “Who told you I have a husband?”

There was genuine confusion on Ogadimma’s face. “But they are coming to marry you today, o bu ghi ya?” she said. “Is that not why we swept the whole house and kept chairs in front of the compound?”

“They are coming for an introduction,” Ugomma said. “So as old as you are, you don’t know the difference between marriage and introduction and which comes before the other?”

The door opened and Oluchi, who was directly younger than Ugomma, came in. “Ugomma, they have come. They have come.”

“Who has come?” Ugomma said, taken aback by the announcement.

 “Who else is coming today?”

“Oh,” Ugomma said, looking at the empty space through the window. “Where are they?

“They parked a car at the other compound. There is no space for them to pass through that side. But they are coming.”

Ichie Okorie came in through the main entrance of the compound, followed by two younger men, carrying kegs of palm wine, Schnapps, and some other alcoholic wine in a carton.

Ugomma’s heartbeat increased as she saw them enter the compound. Her mother, Olamma, came into the room. “Oluchi,” she said, “now, go and call Iyaa Ekezie and tell him they have come.”

Ichie Okorie, now standing outside the entrance of the house, clapped his hands. “Who is in this house? You have visitors.”

Ugomma stood by the window and kept watching her suitors. The family was indeed new to her, though she had long known the matriarch of the house, Nne Adaora, who wasn’t here with them. Ugomma was taken in by the air of importance which surrounded them. Ichie Okorie sat down. On his left, sat one of his sons, the elder one who was huge and took his broad nose. On the left, sat the younger son, slimmer, darker and taller, with a quiet face. Ugomma did not need to be told he was the one who had come to ask for her hand in marriage. Ekezie, her uncle, came in not long after, exchanged pleasantries with the suitors like people he was familiar with. Ekezie had indeed known Ichie Okorie and taught his elder daughter in school in the ’60s.

Olamma brought kola nuts. Ekezie took one kola from the saucer, and held it as though showing it to everyone present. From where she was, Ugomma watched him pray on it, asking God and the ancestors to bless it, and bless everyone who was present, and to bless the discussions to be had in the meeting, and lastly, for good health and long life. Olamma brought aṅara and ose ọji to the table. Ugomma, from the window where she was watching, sucked in air anxiously. She walked back to the bed and sat down. Outside, she could hear them chit-chat. Soon, the door opened and Olamma stood by it; and Ugomma knew it was time for her to come out.

She came out and stood before them. She was nervous. Then she looked up and saw Ichie Okorie smiling boisterously towards her. She looked cursorily at every other person and with the way their eyes were on her, she felt shy like a child before strange adults who she did not feel so comfortable with.

“My daughter,” her uncle said, “you know I am not a man of long talk. These people here have come to ask for your hand in marriage, and that is what has brought them here. I have spoken shortly with them and I did not mince words when I told them about what I discussed with your mother; that you are willing to get married, but you also want to complete your education. Our family and their family have been on good terms for generations. We don’t go to their house every day, nor do they come here often, but for something that has lasted generations, a few years could be that one day in which every other person is busy. When you have known people this long, I believe negotiations will always be fruitful. So we will hear what they have to say, and you should be here while that happens, because it is neither me nor your mother who they want to marry.” And turning to the suitors, he said, “Have I said the right thing?”

They all nodded. With that, Ekezie opened his arms to signal that the floor was open for the suitors to go on.

Ichie Okorie sat up on his cane chair. He cleared his throat and Ugomma’s gaze fell again on his huge figure. “When I was young,” he said, “younger than this my child who is about to get married now, my father called me and said, ‘My child, you still have a long way to mature. The years you spent with ndị ụka in Cameroon has influenced your life in ways that are not of us. But you are old enough to get married. Am I saying the truth?’ I told him he was saying the truth. And he asked me if I had any woman in mind. I said I did. He asked me to name them. I began to list, one after the other, the maidens I admired in the land. And one after the other, my father told me why I couldn’t marry any of them, with reasons.”

Ichie Okorie laughed softly, bemused by his recollection, even as everyone paid him their ears. Waving his index finger in the air, he said emphatically, “My father never failed to tell me how he thought I would be a great man if only I overcame my vanity and exuberance. I used to hate him sometimes, because he was harsh. He was the kind of person who told everyone their faults without sweetening the words. He told me that my choice of women showed my exuberance, and that I would grow fast into a man only by marrying a woman who knew what she was doing, who would direct my path.

“My father, Obiodum, took me to Anonyuo’s house to beg him to allow me to marry his daughter, Adaora. That morning, me and my father had a serious argument because I did not want to follow him to the house of a man whom, although was my father’s friend, I knew never liked me. I knew he thought of me as one of those young people whose eyes were always up, and did not see how he would think me good enough for his daughter who I had never looked at twice. But my father was a man who knew how to convince people. I feared that my father would succeed in convincing him. And my father did. Looking back now, many years later, I see the young man I was in my mind’s eye and look at who I am now; and I don’t think my father, or my father-in-law himself were wrong. The things which Adaora my wife helped me overcome in life confirmed the fear those men had for me. Sometimes, it seems to me that my father knew he was not going to live very long. He did not even live long enough to see our first surviving child, Obialunamma. He was not there to guide me, but the woman he married for me, guided me in all the ways he was supposed to. Why am I telling this story?” he asked, pausing. “Marriage for us is more than just two people coming together and giving birth to children. If a man marries right, his wife helps him to reach where he wants to reach in life, and gives the woman a life of satisfaction, protection, and the glory of motherhood. We are here today is not coincidence”—and looking to Ugomma, he added—“that we have come for you is well planned. We have talked about it. My wife, who has chosen good wives for many men, has said that the best wife for our son is Olamma Ezeala’s daughter; and I agreed. And so my people, my daughter, this is why we have come here.” Ichie Okorie sat back on the chair and a brief silence settled on everyone present, as though his words were taking root in them all. Then he sat up again, whispered into his son’s ear and said again to everyone. “My daughter, about your desire to go to school, my son is going to speak to us now.”

“Daalu nu,” Obiebuka said. There was a murmur of acceptance from everyone and an immediate silence which showed they were waiting to hear him. “It is true that I have come to marry your daughter. And I knew from what I had been told that she was still in school. Now we have learnt that she would love to continue her education and get her school cert. There is nothing much to say here. I am myself a lover of education, and this will not cause us trouble.” He looked up, saw everyone nodding in agreement, and added, “When I have married Ugomma, I will see that she completes her education.” When he said those words, Ugomma felt herself go deeper into the pact.

“My brother will send her to school,” Okenna said. “When we married my wife, she was in class two, right?” he gestured towards Obiebuka, who nodded in agreement. “And we made sure she got her WAEC. So I do not think that will be any problem.”

The rustling of the dust-coated leaves on the trees could be heard as the harmattan wind blew. Ekezie spoke up. “My daughter,” he said to Ugomma, “So shall we go ahead and collect these drinks?”

Ugomma looked up, she stuttered, and not finding the right words to reply, nodded.❦

Michael Chiedoziem Chukwudera is a writer and community builder. His works have appeared in Jalada, Open Country, The Republic, Afapinen, Havik, Witsprouts, and elsewhere. He is also the author of Loss is an Aftertaste of Memories. He is the director of Umuofia Arts and Books Festival.