Against the Odds. Ben Igwe

       Thirty-Six

       Thirty-Seven

       Thirty-Eight

       Thirty-Nine

       Forty

       One

      The mist that settled overnight on the village in dry season cleared quickly in the morning. A big bowl of sun appearing on the horizon could be sighted through tree branches and drooping palm fronds. Some villagers had emerged from their compounds to start the day. Women with long baskets on their heads were on the way to farms to dump trash or start work, while others returning from the stream balanced clay pots of spring water on their heads. Men who had gone into the bushes earlier on were returning with fodder for goats, machetes in hand, before setting out for other daily activities. A wine tapper with a ladder and oblong safety harness slung across his shoulder was on his way to tap palm for morning wine. Fowls that sauntered across the road into neighborhood farms had begun scratching through debris and soil for food. Occasionally a rooster stretched its neck, head, and combs high to crow, embracing a new day.

      Uridiya walked briskly along the dirt road in the direction of the half-walled village hall with its roof of rusty corrugated iron sheets. She looked pitiful in the black mourning outfit that consisted of a loose blouse, a single wraparound loincloth, and a head-cloth of the same fabric knotted loosely at the back of her neck. Her temper was short. Quite easily she would call out all the evil spirits of the land if provoked, especially by relatives of her deceased husband who took advantage of her. She would put a curse on everyone who abused her or planned to do so:

      “Chi-ne-eke, any man or woman who does not wish a widow well, or who wants to see her head buried in the ground will not meet good fortune. Anyone who wants to stress me to death from talking will follow Nnorom to the land of the dead. May all the dead of this village and the great Imo River take them? The evil spirits will not allow anyone to rest who has sworn that Uridiya will have no rest. May all the evil things you wish for me follow you, your children, and your children’s children, both born and unborn. May evil visit you―reincarnation after reincarnation. May you be cursed, not me. You say I am a lunatic, wait till you see what a lunatic can do.”

      Uridiya would conclude by saying that she was certain that those who maltreated her would never leave her alone. She likened herself to the chick picked up and lodged irretrievably in the sharp talons of a fleeing hawk, shrieking hard not because the predator would let go. Alas, no, she is crying out so the world would hear her voice.

      Village youngsters and siblings who gathered in cool sandy shade looked forward to hearing Uridiya at some point during the day because they expected someone to upset her. Her curses had almost turned into a song and ritual for them. If children saw her standing with two hands clasped across her head staring intently into space, they knew she was about to invoke evil spirits on persons who might have wronged her. They would giggle and provoke her by throwing out some words so she would say something funny for their amusement. One very windy afternoon, after she was done cursing and breathing heavily, a townsman, Nzeadi, coming down the narrow road on a bicycle, greeted her as he approached.

      “Uridiya, I greet you. How are you doing?”

      “Are you asking how Uridiya is doing? Can’t you see how I am doing?” She spread both hands and projected her chest. The cyclist stopped. Still on his bicycle with the right foot on the pedal and the left foot on the ground, he looked at her.

      “To tell the truth, you look well.” Uridiya laughed mischievously.

      “Do you say I look well the way I am or are you mocking me?”

      “How can I mock you, Uridiya? To mock you is to mock myself. Your late husband and I were age-mates and friends too.”

      “Is that true? I did not know that.” Uridiya’s voice rose. “Then you are in the group of those who want me dead. They are the people who call themselves Nnorom’s friends and relatives.”

      “What would they do with your corpse, Uridiya? They can’t eat it.” The cyclist dismounted and with his right foot pressed down the bicycle stand and turned fully to Uridiya.

      “The meat from Uridiya’s body will be tasteful. You didn’t know that?” she said.

      “I did not know anybody who wants you dead. Please don’t count me in that group. I am hearing it for the first time from your mouth.” The man held on to his hat and beat back the wind that attempted to take it off his head.

      “If you have not heard it, then you do not live in this village. You must be a visitor. What town are you from?”

      “Uridiya, please don’t worry about it. I did not say anything bad. All I said is that you look well.” A woman who turned to look at them after she passed almost walked off the road. The cyclist let go of his hat, having pressed it firmly down on his gray-haired head.

      “Come on, man, you said it again. Are you looking at Uridiya, or are you looking at someone else?” She pointed at herself.

      “I am looking at you, and I see you do not look sick.” Nzeadi moved closer.

      “Oh, is that true? It is only when I look sick that you will know that my death is near?”

      “At least everyone will know that Uridiya has been sick.”

      “So, you have not seen anyone who died without being sick?”

      “Uridiya, please don’t die. To whom will you leave this one child of yours? Stay alive and raise your child. Nobody takes care of a child like a mother does.”

      “Did you say that? Did you say that?” The cyclist struck a co rd in Uridiya, who wheeled herself around and even came closer to him. “Did that come out of your mouth? I hope all the creatures of God and man heard you. May you live long, you who have seen the truth and voiced it! Nobody raises another person’s child. All those who plan my death should hear you. Your statement is that of a prophet. Anyone that it pleased God to give a child should stay alive to see the child become somebody, be the child male or female. God made it so.”

      “Uridiya, I must continue on my journey now. May life be good to you.”

      “Go well, may you be blessed.” The cyclist, still talking to her, pushed his bicycle for a while, then mounted and rode away.

      Villagers who took advantage of Uridiya would attempt to rob her of farmlands as well as the fruit trees that sustained her. They harvested her oil bean tree in the early hours of the morning before she woke up, carried away her breadfruits when they fell and no one was watching. They would not leave a widow alone to have breathing space until she started to behave like a lunatic with a sharp abusive tongue, spitting out curses on them and their children.

      The black two-piece mourning outfit with matching head-cloth was Uridiya’s attire for one year during the period tradition required that she mourn her husband. A merciless haircut compounded her miserable condition. Her head was shaved to the bare shining skull. This duty was dexterously performed by widows from the kindred who themselves had been through the same rite. They shaved off her hair with a piece of broken bottle or sometimes with a locally made razor. It was done to perfection and, her head polished with palm kernel oil, shone reflectively.

      Uridiya Nnorom, a widow in the village of Aludo in Igboland in Eastern Nigeria, suffered the fate of a widow. The condition of the widow in the village in the 1950s evoked sympathy and pity. Her life was a struggle. Suffering was her lot and endurance her virtue. Because most people did not care about her, she went about her harsh living saying as little as possible. Widowhood leaves little for words. Resignation to the