Posted By Adoga Michael Oyi
Mama had decided, after a long paternity argument, that I would live with her only younger brother, the late Mr Paulinius Ikpala Yegwa.
Uncle Ikpala was a very brilliant man. He'd just graduated from the famous TTC (Teacher's Training College), Ogoja. He was among the very few new elites of Ugaga breed at the time. Mama had reasoned that, by my stay with uncle Ikpala, I would some day become a teacher.
Teachers were the most important elites in my region of upbringing. The entire Ogoja, Obudu, Yala, Bekwarra and Obanlikwu prided in education. They desired good morals. The ready compass to achieve these were the teachers : Elementary(Primary), College(Secondary) and University teachers.
We had very few university graduates or even undergrads. The nearest to a university education was the A'Levels or HSC(Higher School Certificate) holders. Shortly after their HSC,most of them became college teachers. The more brilliant ones were recruited as college tutors (teachers). The less brilliant became Elementary teachers. Yet in some cases, even the very brilliant ones were chosen to teach the elementary pupils. The idea was to impact their ingenuity and brilliance in the brains of the little ones, as these would become tomorrow's teachers, nay,leaders!
Uncle Ikpala's first port of assignment was at Okpoma, in the very famous Christ the King)CKC) Elementary School. My uncle, like most of his contemporaries, was a bachelor. He needed a 'help-mate' , a 'boi-boi', not a wife yet. Those who lived with people outside their natural parents were referred to as 'boi-boi'. That was a derogatory term for house maids or servants. I was one of them.
He was considered too young to marry. I guess, my uncle was in his mid twenties or late thirties. Some at that age were virgins. Getting a wife then would distract him from taking care of the litany of extended family needs.
For my foreign readers, especially, the none African, in Africa, one man's problem is every man's problem, yearning for every one's solution. Africans live a communal life style, taking care of one another's needs. That was the Africa I grew into. Not the today's Africa of western (European and American) life style of me for myself, God for all of us !
In Okpoma, being an Okuku boy, life was dull, too conservative and dry. The smell of 'Ikor'(the local market) was not as enticing as the Okuku 'ida oga agi'(a market named after its founder, the late chief Ogar Agi) of Okuku.
Ikor was too far from my new residence which was, itself about a kilometer and a half from CKC. Everything looked strange and primitive to me. The Okpoma soil was too reddish. Before this period of my life, I'd never seen such a red and sharply pebbled soil.
Most of us wore no shoes nor the so-called bathroom slippers, erroneously called "selpers" or "esilipas" by most locals. We trekked long distances to school and to do errands. But as an Okuku boy, regarded by my contemporaries as an 'ajebo', I'd a pair of slippers. Mama never liked her children on bare feet.
In Okpoma, I was seen as a town boy. In Okuku, it was a normal thing to wear slippers. But aside Okuku, most of the kids who wore shoes or slippers were termed lazy. I was amongst the lazy kids from Okuku amongst the village folks of Okpoma.
But above all, I was a "teacher's servant/boy" as those of us living with teachers were referred to. We were looked upon as today's ajebo(born abroad), silver spoon kids. The teachers' children were an angel, fallen from the heavens ; they were expected to live a very disciplined life style. The headmaster's children were a super group of angels on an earthly errand ; they must not be failures. They must not fail in any school exams. They must be more pious than the Catholic clergy.
Okpoma was, in Yala, like Rome is to the Roman catholics : the first RCM priest came (comes) from there. He was the Rev Fr Joseph Edrah Ukpo. He was the very revered catholic arch bishop, once the arch bishop of Calabar diocese.
The people of Okpoma seemed strange to me. Sundays were like a Christmas day. Every home smelled of rice stew, seasoned with curry plant. The smell made the blind to see the home in which such stew was being 'fried'. Not a few kids were bewitched by the aroma of the curry stew. Not many homes ate rice and stew on ordinary days, aside a Sunday and Christmas. The Okpoma people acted, seemingly, more catholic than the Pope(Bishop of Rome )!
In Okuku, being a commercial town, people looked more to the ida ogar agi than they did to the Sunday- Sunday church activities. Okuku people lived a jolly-well life style, akin to America's Las Vegas; much partying and lottery. Much drinking and politicking. Much 'disco-ing and businessing'.
Okuku would've been given the name 'Tinapa' or 'Calabar'. Even Las Vegas wouldn't have been too big a name for Okuku . Much of a free life style was Okuku.
In Okpoma, water was as hard to get as the human blood to drink. That is, if you weren't a witch. We trekked very long distances of 15-20 kilometers to fetch water. It depended on the location of your residence. But we trekked long long distances for water. Akúblēh was the place of water. Clean water. It was a place of spring water. You could see a pin drop, going from bottom, to the base of the water. Impeccably clean, the water was.
We wore no slippers. We simply plugged from a tree whose fruits, God designed like shoes. They came in diverse sizes. We plugged and tied the elephant grass unto them for 'esilipas'. In cases where we couldn't get some of those fruits, we jumped on grasses in order to cool the effect of the scourgng sun!
My uncle wanted me to be strong. He made sure I wore no slippers to any where he sent me for an errand. He had spies who would report me if I defaulted. The punishment was severe. He either caned me 3- 5 strokes of the cane or asked me to pick pin. I hated the later. The teacher's cane pained more than any mother's beating. But pick-pin was a more painful punishment for me, an ajebo boy from Okuku.
For a jolly well Okuku kid, okpoma was a hard place to live in. I preferred any other place. Not okpoma.
***
When uncle Ikpala was transferred to Ugaga, my joy and excitement was almost like an earthquake. I told every of my folks that I was leaving for a place closer to the city. Okuku was the city in my child's mind. Ugaga was the rehearsal to that city. In other words, Ugaga was closer to becoming a city, earlier than Okpoma, by its proximity to Okuku.
At Ugaga, I was the toast of my little gang of players. I was still looked upon as an Okuku boy. News soon reached every nook and cranny of the small but strong hamlet-like society that one boy whose mother brought from the very big city of Jos to Okuku was in the ghetto.
Mama was amongst the victims of the Nigerian civil war. I was the only child with mama at Jos. She had left my late older brother, Frankurl, with her family relations in Ugaga. Mama left along with me to Jos, born shortly before the war of internecine that broke Nigeria's back bone.
I was born prematurely; my legs were jerky and I was the most fragile kid born in Ugaga. Mama and her relatives concluded that I was being haunted and eaten by some witches in the ghetto. My life was getting reduced by instalment. I looked malnurished and melancholic. My eyes sunk. The name given to me, Imaji was taking an grip on me. Imaji is Yala for 'born without hope of living', put more dastardly, it would sound something like "born-for-nothing" or "just de look" or "looking without hope". Bad name. Bad deal with the devil !
My health challenges prompted mama to literally cart me away to a distant place where the witches of the time would find too distant to reach. Though, today's witches would still have reached wherever we ran to ; it's now a tecno- computer witch operation, in order to reach the technology of this time . Jos was the most friendly and ideal place for mama to go !
According to mama, immediately we arrived Jos, in a few weeks or months, being fed with raw tomatoes, as prescribed by a German medical doctor, I stood erect, played about and my brains became alert and sensitive. Soon, mama seemed to be offering another type of prayer : for her kid to be restful, as I became restless and hyperactive, with a keen sense of creativity and dance. Mama said, I danced to anything, even to the clattering of spoons or plates !
So, the new Ugaga friends saw me both as a super town/city kid. I capitalized on that and became more restless. I engaged in all plays. My best play was the throwing of cards. Those cards were got from chewing gums. They had pictures of our cowboy heroes : Gary Cooper. The village folks called him 'Agari Kupa'. Then, the John Wayne. He was called 'Ajoni Way'. Et el. We played it as if our life depended on it.
That game was keenly followed with what we called "icha-cha". Icha-cha was a kindergarten kind of 'kalokalo', a lottery. We would take a coin of money, close our palms around it, cover it to the ground. The opponent would star-gaze the side of the coin that was facing upwards by placing the chosen side on the other person's back of the palm. If he got it, the covered coin became his. But otherwise, the owner of the covered palm owned it.
That game was the earliest type of lottery amongst the kids of my days. We played it beyond reading our books.
Most times, we stole our parents' coins. I stole one. My teacher uncle was too smart to leave his money to be seen by any one. He dug ground to hide it in used tins of beverages. I ran to Okuku. Mama was a ready prey. She sold palm wine and plaited women hairs. She had money, carelessly kept under her pillows. Some were hidden inside a bottle and kept in a dug up hole in the open bath place. I knew all her 'banks'. There was no sense of a modern banking system as it is today.
The women's banks were the tips of their wrappers, braziers, under-pillows, bottles, etc.
Mama had all. I knew all. I stole from some. But like the proverbial 99 days for the thief, 1 day for the owner, mama's day came, my hell arrived on my head. I was caught.
Mama's beatings and punishments, far out beat that of the police or mopol. Mama beat me like I was an armed robber. She rubbed ground pepper and robbed it on my armpits, anus and pennis. My eyes and mouths were neither spared. She took me to St Joseph's Elementary School, where I began my education. Mr Atabi, one of the greatest disciplinarians was handy. He was the Headmaster.
Needless to add that I was lashed with 12 strokes of the teacher's cane ? But above all, I was masqueraded while the pupils were chorusing and clapping their hands and 'kpomkpom '(used tins)were clattered together, singing,"thiefy man ojankoliko,what's your name, shame".
After that singular experience, before becoming a born-again Christian, I vowed and has been able to maintain a no-stealing of any sorts life style. I never participated in the pilfering deal of students during my college years. Mama's punishments have remained a moral sign-post.
Thanks to mama's hard-core discipline. Today, mama would've been sued for child abuse. Mama's discipline shaped my life. But that would be a gist for another day.
Back to hamlet : My closest friends at Ugaga was one Clement Okache. He later became known as 'Leekache'. Like me, he's an Okuku boy. But unlike me, he knew both lives ; town and village life style. He knew how to farm. I knew nothing about agriculture. He knew how to play village tricks. I knew very little.
In addition to my gang of village allies was a boy who looked slow but with the fastest of village sense and home industry. His name was (is) Linius Onah. He was a chubby-looking fellow, a bit close to the ground, yet very strong. He loved mischief and laughed alot at one, especially when he played it. We played village truancy and 'jam-body'-like soccer. I was the chosen goal-keeper. We played soccer on the school field as much as in the Ojeka compound at ochubi Ugaga. We played every where.
The most interesting side of Ugaga life was the gathering at 'Ochūbi Ugaga'(Ugaga main square) for night stories at moon light. Our school teachers told us about city stories. Calabar. Enugu. Onitsha. Ibadan. Benin city. Kaduna. Kano. Lagos.
Of all the stories, Lagos life story was the most exciting. Lagos sounded like Heaven. It sounded like America. London. Rome. Lagos fitted into Okuku. We all desired to be in Lagos one day, at least before we died. And the only way we would do that was to study hard. Very hard, indeed.
Our teachers were like demi-gods. They knew all things. By their stories, they'd been to every city on earth. O, how we adored them. They spoke good "European English". We thought that all of Europe was English.
Little did we know that few of our teachers had even found their ways to Calabar, not to mention the far away Lagos !
To make up for the absence of our teachers, we, the town boys of Okuku were asked to tell stories of the town. Not many Ugaga boys had been fortunate to visit Okuku, a mere 5klms from Ugaga.
We told stories of the cinemas that we watched. The American cow boys. The Chinese shaolin and karrate. Taekwando was a later year movie. We spoke so glowing of the heroes whom we simply called the 'actors'. Of all the actors, Bruce Lee stood out. We also had the Gary Cooper. The John Wayne. Then, the movie, 'The good, the bad and the ugly'.
Our stories were full of plenty lies. We told how Bruce Lee could beat up all the Ugaga village warriors. We spoke of the powerful shaolin master and his ability to fly several miles away from his stand point. The illiterate elders, listening to our "enlightened" storytelling wished one day, after our education, we could get to China for the importation of those shaolin braves to support as macineries of war against the Ishibori boundary fighters who fought the Ugaga rice farmers. We lied about America we'd never been to. We spoke of the Queen of England as if she was our mother. We sang the 'Jack and Jill' British ryme to the consternation of the villagers. We told them of how Jack and Jill fell of the rock from the big River Thame and broke Their necks, yet lived to become kings of England. We told them of how the Queen fell in love with Prince Nico Mbarga because he waxed the 'Sweet Mother' music. In fact, the Queen was going to relocate to Nigeria to marry her prince, Prince Nico Mbarga !
No. Common, boy, we lied about everything. We thought and believed that Jerusalem, Bethlehem, River Jordan and Israel as a whole were located in God's owned Heaven. We simply believed that by water baptism through our priests, we qualified for Jerusalem in Heaven. We would see the Pope there, in Heaven's Rome. We would gather to beat up Adam and Eve for causing us untold hardship; we believed that if not for their sins, we could've been millionaires, flying in personal jets as we would speak them to produce themselves for us. Life, we thought was going to be free with everything we desired. But Adam and Eve spoiled the show.
Ugaga was also a place of plenty deaths. There were the 'óbi'(gun shots at burials). I hated it. I feared it. I hated and feared the wailings. In fact, I so hated and feared the wailings that I distanced my self from uncle Ikpala's Bob Marley and the Wailers records. I thought they were professional wailers.
The dead were kept high on some built up stakes. The stakes were of 10-15 feet high. Chickens and bingos (dogs) leaked from the droplets of body fluid(water ) that went from the corpses. It was as horrifying as it was disgusting. Some chickens were butchered and cooked from those burial scenes.
The Ugaga people were traditional farmers. Very industrious people. Seemingly few but extremely powerful and brave people. It's a quiet town, its people are a bit conservative, yet life-loving. They never suffered themselves to have many things of life. They were a highly self-disciplined and self-contented people. They loved farm work.
Unlike the Okpoma people, Sundays were mostly spent in the farms.
The Ugaga people were not known for Christianity. They prided themselves in their nativity and local gods. They even imported some gods. For example, okā is the peoples ancestral god, but 'ngozi' was imported from igbo land. That was normally in times of warfare. It was the female gender name for a god. It assisted the big one, okā. The big one, okā was the 'almighty god'. It seemed to have struggled a place with another big one, 'ídā'. Ida, pronounced differently from the market form of idā, was quite a horrific warrior and hunter of witches and wizards.
Young boys drank water from the ídā shrine in times of war. The adults swallowed charms from oka. The young boys farted or polluted bees from their anuses. Those bees stung the enemy camp at war. For the adults, no bullets or machetes could penetrate or cut them. The initiation was an open deal. It was quite terrifying as it was a thing of bravado. Every one child or adult wished to be a part of those village patriots or chauvinists.
I wished to be a part of them. But my very pious uncle would never allow me a step closer to the area at ochūbi Ugaga where the shrine stood, secluded, away from the public water well. Aside his adherence to Christianity, he feared my mother.
Mama never allowed us near any shrine or magical gatherings. Mama never went close to any of those, either. But mama, when I was growing, never stepped close to a church. She remained a Roman catholic at heart. But today, she's in the choir of the aged !
Ugaga brewed the braves. A very peaceful place. Very receptive to both indigines and strangers. Yet a very united homeland to its own ; the typical Ugaga person loves his or her own. Any one Ugaga is ready to die for his or her town's person, not minding whose at fault.
The Ugaga person never allowed police in their midst. All disagreements were settled in the King's palace. No one sued the other to any western courts. All cases were settled within the family circles, amongst the heads. Serious ones were either taken before a gathering of chiefs at the King's palace or before age mate groups. The guilty ones were fined there.
If you were (are) an Ugaga blood, whether of paternity or maternity, you were loved as much as those born of typical Ugaga parentages. Sometimes, it appeared to me that those of us with only maternal bearings were more cuddled and protected ; we seemed more loved and appreciated. We were often reminded that we belonged there.
Ugaga seemed or seems to me, an America where all children born of either or both parentages were or are so cherished and protected by the moral and ancestral laws of the land. Ugaga seems to me, a spirit that never leaves it's own.
Ugaga, like Gabriel Okara's 'The cry of the River Nun', a poem, seems to beckon to me, to us, to every one born of an Ugaga blood. Ugaga breathes an air that saturates the human soul with love and confidence. Ugaga incites bravery and truth. Ugaga is an eternal heritage of the brave ones.
Ugaga breathes the Yegwa-Ikapa. It breathes Offoboche -Yegwa Ikpala. It breathes Ogalama Ogamode. It breathes the ancient bravery. That is why Ugaga refuses to cow itself under the Hausa-Fulani terror hegemony.
Ugaga towers. She sings like a nightingale. She calls on me. She calls on all Ugaga sons and daughters.
The 'ikpri-īhi' and 'ajē-adagblá of Ugaga are a strength to the weak. These are the wealth of Ugaga. But above all, the unity and love of the Ugaga people is like the unity and love of the Yala and Idoma people.
The Yala of Cross River State and the Idoma of Benue State of Nigeria are the most United siblings of different states. They are as if they were of the same state in Nigeria. Their love is as ancestral as it is eternal in words and deeds.
Sucking from an Ugaga breast is like drinking from Papa Abraham's well of water. It makes one feel like aren't Israeli or Israelite. It's unifying and encouraging.
Mama Ugaga is alive. It's now welcoming to Christianity. Mama Ugaga is the political power of Yala, with the largest ward. It's the heart beat of every politician, yet she lies quiet in between the Aya and Okpoku rivers, opening her arms from the southern to northern borders.
Ugaga still calls me. Ugaga beckons. Ugaga runs after hers. She cuddles and kisses her own.
Ugaga never says no to hers. Ugaga was where I spent most of my early years.
Ugaga echoes to me like a woman in love. Her perfume never ceases from my nostrils. Ugaga's body odor is as aromatic as the evening smell of the Queen of the night !
Ugaga is my story that beckons on me, every where, every day, every time !
Ugaga is the story that beckons on the soul of every Ugaga son and daughter !
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