The Rite of Manhood

The decision to take Anyi along on the journey was not an easy one for Nnanyi. For one thing, his mother had objected—vehemently. In her opinion, sneaking through the bushes with creatures as dangerous as pig-men carrying guns was no good for a young man. But Anyi had completed his initiation and was considered a man, regardless of age. At this stage of life, not even his father, master of the home, could compel him towards or away from an action. He still owed respect to his parents and elders, of course, but if he so pleased, he could move away and build his own obi apart from everybody else at any time.
‘Nne’m, I know you are worried. But I am now a man. For how long should I wait before I can do as a man does?’
‘You think a man is what you become after being initiated into Ekpe? You think that one ritual is enough to bestow manhood upon you? If it is so, then even small Ozi could become a man if tested.’
‘I know that manhood is not a destination but a journey… a great quest not all will answer to. But if I say no to every adventure, how do I gain the needed experience?’
His mother shook her head. When he wanted to do something, just like his father, there was no talking him out of it. He could see in her face that more than anything, she wished she could command him. Her gaze swung to Nnanyi.
‘The boy…’ Nnanyi began, then corrected himself immediately, ‘the man has made his choice – ejiro ofu ubosi abulu dike.’ It was a popular saying: one could not become a great man in a single day. Greatness was a process, one that could not be skipped on the journey of attainment.
‘Agwo ayaro imu ife solu ogonogo,’ she sighed, defeated. ‘A snake must always give birth to something long.’ It was her roundabout way of saying, like father, like son.
‘I will take good care of him,’ Nnanyi assured her, placing his hand over his hilt for emphasis.
‘Are you sure you will not consider carrying a… gun?’ She drew out the last word, her tone shaking with uncertainty. Anyi did not think she truly preferred guns to blades, but it didn’t take a d’bia to see which was more dangerous, more effective. Nnanyi paused before replying, the lines of his forehead forming valleys as he weighed her words.
‘It is not our way. We should never have accepted them in the first place. I would rather die Ogbi than live out my days as an ape-man in pig masks.’
Anyi heard the finality in his father’s voice. He was sure his mother, who had known him longer, heard it too, though she did not bother to press him further. Instead, she fetched food supplies that would sustain them until they were deep into the road, where hunting would be easier. Anyi collected the food in a woven sack, and with it, they headed out of Nnanyi’s hut.
In the compound, the other wives, their unmarried children, and well-wishers from across the street had gathered to see them off. Anyi had not thought much about how significant the journey before him was. For the most part, he imagined it as no more than an extended hunting trip with his father. But now with the crowd, he felt self-conscious about everything, even what he wore. He had chosen a V-necked cotton piece with cowries clipped onto it to signify a certain class. A wrapper cloth stopped a few inches above his knees. He thought it necessary for both the heat and for freedom of movement should danger arise. At least, his hair was freshly braided, ornamental clips brushing his shoulders.
‘Looks like a coronation,’ Anyi joked to his father.
‘You better take it all in. It may be the last time you see this place.’
Anyi felt his legs turn to stone, yet he dragged them forward, swallowing the dry lump in his throat. He had never considered death an option; that was for the old and the foolish, and he was neither. The calm in Nnanyi’s face struck him as both distressing and comforting. Distressing, because Nnanyi clearly did not fear death enough to take it seriously. Why else would he think it right to bring a young man along on such a quest? He did not even have children to carry on his lineage if death took them both. Comforting, because he was with someone who seemed less afraid, if he was even afraid at all. There was power in bravery, or at least in the appearance of it. Anyi let out a deep sigh and turned for one final look at his home and his mother. He painted the picture in his mind and burned it into his chi. When they reached the entrance to the compound, the gathered voices rose in wishes of success, their chorus of ise—so shall it be—following the pair down the street. No one left until they reached the edge of the city. Even there, the crowd lingered, waiting until father and son turned to black dots and vanished into the bamboo bush. When Anyi finally saw that they were out of sight, he allowed himself to relax a little.
‘How far is it to the first town?’ Anyi asked.
‘Onicha is about five days. Seven, if we rest too much.’
He had moved enough with his father to know that silence was the older man’s preference. But he had also discovered that he, Anyi, was the opposite. As a balancing act, he decided to ask Nnanyi as many questions as he could, early on.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he began.
‘The child who asks becomes the man who knows.’
Anyi paused to arrange his words. ‘I want to understand about Agwu.’
‘You always choose the most difficult subjects. Even I do not completely understand it. The d’agwus say that while much can be explained, most of it must be experienced.’
‘Like the story of the bird that never learned to fly?’
‘How do you still remember that?’ Nnanyi lips curved into something close to a smile.
The story of the bird that became a chicken was popular among children around the fires. In song, poem, and drama, it told of a bird that hatched on a tree branch but was too afraid to fly. Instead, she gathered stories: of faraway flights from travelling seagulls, and of the highest mountains from high-flying hawks. In time, she told herself she knew all there was to know of the world and of flight, so she never needed to try it. But one day, when the wind was strong and her branch was weak, a sudden gust came. With a sharp snap, she awoke, and just as she had dreaded all her life, she fell. In that moment, it became clear that what she knew and what she had lived were not the same. From the thousands of stories she had collected, not one could form a feather on her wing, place the wind beneath it, or lift her even an inch into the air. It was one of Anyi’s favourite stories, one he already planned to tell his own children one day.
‘I don’t mind. You can just tell me what you know. I just want to know something about it.’
Nnanyi nodded.
‘When a boy starts to become a man, sometimes, he is defiant. As you were with your mother earlier.’
‘I didn’t mean to be, I just…’
‘It is okay, Anyi. I am not chastising you at all. In fact, in many ways, it was a proud moment for me.’
‘Oh,’ Anyi paused. ‘I thought you would say I was doing isike. And you don’t like it when I am stubborn.’ It was now his father’s turn to pause. Anyi caught the smirk on his right cheek this time.
‘Isike and i’kpa agwu are not the same thing.’ The boy was looking up at him as they walked. ‘Keep your eyes on the road. If I do not see the danger, I am counting on you to see it. Having that trust in you is part of the responsibilities of being initiated.’ At first, Anyi had thought being a man meant having a wife or more, an obi with many huts, and children running around them. It had been mere theatre in his mind, a role he had to play to become a man, and he wished to be one. But with recent events, he had outgrown that. During initiation, when great danger and hard thinking tasks were set upon him and the others, he came to understand courage as a virtue, and the spirit of collaboration as essential in solving challenges too difficult for one man alone. In a sense, it taught him that being a man in Eke also meant being part of a whole. Now he was beginning to understand how things worked in practice. He noticed a slouch in his back and straightened himself to walk more erect. Something scurried in the bushes, but it was only a small rabbit—one that would not make for a filling dinner after so much walking.
‘Nnanyi, you were saying about isike and i’kpa agwu.’
‘Yes. At your age, you are beginning to ask who you are in this world, and what you must do to take the place that is your Akala, your destiny. The Great Ape Men have a saying: ofu nne na’amu, mana ofu chi adehi eke.’
‘The same mother may birth, but all souls are unique.’
‘Yes. The Great Ape Men believed that while we are related by blood, in the realm of chi, we bear no resemblance. Souls may reincarnate in one family through the ancestral cycles of death and rebirth, but even that does not mean my chi is anything like yours. It is why even twins can be so different, though raised in the same obi by the same family.’
Anyi’s face furrowed in contemplation. He had never allowed the thought that a part of him was a stranger to his father, his mother—a stranger to everyone but himself. The thought raised bumps on his arms, and he clenched a fist to quench them. His father continued.
‘Your chi holds the potential for all the destinies you may live. As you know from the saying, onye kwe, chi ya ekwe.’
‘What one wills, their chi will will.’
‘You know it well. Isike means to be stubborn for no reason other than stubbornness itself. And you are right, I despise it. I’kpa agwu, on the other hand, is developing your psyche to become your own individual—the start of the journey to becoming one with your chi. It is a process that can take decades, and many never complete it, dying without ever knowing their inner chi. They speak of it, perform all the rituals, yet the true meanings of the symbols and language remain lost on them.’
‘Are you saying I am allowed to tell anyone no on the account of following my chi?’
‘Are you not paying attention? Why do you say it is you who follows the chi?’
‘I thought you said the chi is the seat of our destiny. Am I not to follow my destiny?’
‘Just like you, every situation has a plurality of potential destinies. Will you marry or will you not? You may or you may not. But depending on the lineage you are from, your ability to care for others, and your sense of responsibility, the odds may tip towards yes. The most probable outcome of a situation, based on the information you supply, is what the d’agwu calculate when they roll their totems on the numerology mat or cast the seed nodes for a reading.’
‘Does it always work?’
‘Of course not! Like all other ways of seeing, the mathematical only holds when the variables remain the same. It is a matter of probability, not certainty. The Great Ape Men have told us that even the rocks have chi in them. All is in flux. Numbers have their use as a tool, but they too are not infallible and cannot answer every question.’
‘This is all very confusing. I can’t even feel this chi in me. How am I supposed to find the destiny most right for me?’
‘The commitment to finding it is all that is required. It seeks you as you seek it. Every thought and action you invest to get closer to it will bring it closer to you. That is how i’kpa agwu works best. Your chi will not lead you, and you will not lead it. When your left mind meets your right mind, when your thinking mind meets your chi, you will become one with it, and it with you. Just keep developing your uche with illuminating ako, A strong mind, rich with information, is essential to unlocking the best relationship with your chi. But do not forget to live, to feel. The wisest d’agwus say that our chi mind speaks only in images and impulses from intuition. Reading a million poems on courage and burning chi sticks at a hundred ikenga shrines will teach you less about courage than hearing the growl of a hungry leopard after sundown in the forest. The body is its own mind and memory.’
The boy nodded, though it was not the definite answer he had hoped for. He had wanted an instruction that would yield results immediately—something instant, with little or no process.
‘So, are you saying if I mastered my psyche well enough, marrying my chi mind with my thinking mind, I would be able to see the future like d’agwu Nneoma?’
‘I already told you. Like the fingers on the palm that hold the akala marks of destiny, not all chi are the same—no two chi are the same! That means our potentials are also different. If it is in your potential, then so will it be.’
‘So, some people are…’ he hesitated, ‘better than others?’
‘It is not wise to think of such things as better or worse. I am what I am, d’agwu Nneoma is what she is, and you are what you are. We shine brightest when we are our most authentic forms. We need not all see the future or read dreams like a d’agwu. We only need to be ourselves, in our highest possible form, fully and completely. If you forget all else that I have taught you, do not forget this.’
As if from nowhere, the thunder of a rifle rang out. First came a violent scream, then an echo the pair had no time to follow. There was a ruffle in the trees, one far too large to be a man. It could have been a giant, but they had long since become relics of legend. The roar was unmistakable. A gorilla leapt from the trees, and another followed—a mother and child, if their sizes were anything to judge by. Anyi and his father had no time to think, but Nnanyi managed to pull the boy close.
‘Stay close!’
They only had to step aside, and the gorillas ran past without stopping. Another shot cracked, as if from the sky. This time, they caught the direction of the shooter—it was where the gorillas were running.
‘We get down, and we stay down.’
Nnanyi dropped belly-flat on the ground, and without hesitation, Anyi followed. More shots rang out, sending the gorillas sprinting in all directions. Twice, Anyi and his father had to roll aside to avoid a stampede. Other times, they just waited it out. Soon, the gorillas began to slow, and eventually, they stopped.
‘We got the baby!’ A pig-man appeared. ‘And it looks like we’ve got a father and son here too.’
Anyi looked up to see the man in leather boots and the navy-blue uniform typical of armed pig-men. His chest carried several badges. The one that caught the boy’s eye bore the insignia of three lions. The others mostly resembled gold and silver coins. The mother gorilla seemed in a trance, poking at her child to bring it back to life. She shrieked and cried, then fell silent. Another pig-man in uniform appeared, and in unison, they shot her in the head.
‘I do not understand. Why do you kill creatures that mean you no harm? Or do you wish to feast on gorilla meat for your dinner?’
The shock at his mastery of their language was clear in their eyes.
‘And who might you be?’ the more decorated of the two officers asked.
‘I am Nnanyi Nweke, Ogbu’agu na Eke. And this is my son, Anyi. We are travelling to Onicha to deliver a message from our Eze to their Obi.’
The two pig-men whispered to each other, and Nnanyi felt his hands itch for a sword.
‘We were simply clearing the parameters to make camp. We are travelling to Eke with a message from the Queen to your Eze.’
‘Then do not bother with camping. You are only half a day’s journey away.’
The pig-men whispered again.
‘Thank you, Nnanyi Nweke, Ogbu’agu na Eke. We will hurry then. It is a matter of haste.’
Anyi watched his father’s gaze on the men and the suspicion that poured from his eyes.
‘Go in peace and go well.’
They turned back to look at the gorillas—the mother slumped over the child, both mangled in that way only death could prescribe.
‘Be careful what you kill here. Some things are sacred, and others are not.’ Nnanyi nudged Anyi forward, and soon they had disappeared into the bushes and out of the pig-men’s sight. Nnanyi unclenched his jaw and loosened his grip, a heavy sigh easing the tension from the rest of his body.
‘This will not end well,’ he said to no one in particular.