There Was A Kingdom

The journey to Onicha was mostly uneventful after the encounter with the pig-men. Anyi said little, and so did his father. When hunger struck, they hunted rabbits and other bushmeat, making fires with dried grass, sticks, and stones. For thirst, they made sure to fill their drinking bottles whenever they came across a clean stream. At night, when the heat gave way to a chill, they sought groves to rest in, warming themselves by the fire and covering with the cow-skin capes they had set out with once the flames reduced to embers. Five days later, as Nnanyi had predicted, they arrived on a path worn smooth by frequent trampling. On it, they met men, women, and children moving with haste in their step. Anyi guessed it was the same as Eke, where mornings meant trips to the bushes to hunt and to the streams to fetch water. The trees leading up to the city gates were marked with Nsibidi symbols, but beneath them, pig-men alphabets were carved in for translation.
‘Perhaps we are already too late.’ Nnanyi’s eyes scanned the lettering on the trees, his distaste plain on his face.
‘Do you know how to read their writing too?’ Anyi asked.
‘No, but I can recognize it anywhere,’ his father replied.
The pair carried on, with Nnanyi being greeted as an Ogbu’agu as they walked. The Ogbis were like that. Eke was a kingdom in its own right, and so was Onicha. Yet at their core, they were one Ogbi, which meant cultural totems were respected equally in both lands. ‘Well, we are here,’ Nnanyi announced.
Finally, they reached a bronze gate with a large wooden arch inscribed with all manner of symbols, and an elephant tusk firmly planted at the centre. The gate itself bore carvings of palm wine tappers, hunters, metal casters, and other common professions in the land. Five men stood guard—three locals and two foreigners, by the looks of it.
‘Welcome to Onicha.’ One of the pig-men was the first to speak. His Ogbi was poor, but not so incomprehensible that Anyi and his father could not understand. Nnanyi turned to the local guard.
‘Why do pig-men welcome me to your land? Have you lost your voice? Or perhaps you are now a conquered people?’ As Nnanyi spoke, Anyi noticed his eyes linger on the pig-men’s guns and swords.
‘This place is now under the protection of the Queen of Anglonland,’ the pig-man interjected.
‘Protection from whom? From what? Where I come from, we do not ask the goat thief to watch the goat pen,’ Nnanyi shot back.
‘You compare us to common thieves?’
‘I will not speak to you. You insult our tongue in how you speak these words you know nothing of.’
‘Take it easy.’ The local guard tried to ease the tension. ‘What is the purpose of your visit?’
Nnanyi shook his head.
‘When did this start? In all the years I have journeyed to Onicha, never have I been asked to state the purpose of my visit. Or have you forgotten who we are? Is the tongue I speak no longer enough? You let these strangers come between us. It is a great shame.’
‘It is the way it is now. Things are changing.’ The local guard himself wore some sort of Anglonland uniform—not quite the same as the pig-men’s, but close enough—his shoulder marked with some type of rank. Nnanyi glared at them as though they were spectacles of shame, while Anyi’s face bore only confusion.
‘Don’t you get hot in this attire?’ Nnanyi clenched his jaw. ‘Anyway, I am here on orders from Eze Eke. I must meet with the Obi of Onicha to deliver a personal message. This is my son, Anyi. He is with me.’
The guards exchanged confused looks.
‘You can tell us what you wish to tell the Obi, and we will pass the message to him,’ the foreign guard pressed.
‘What I wish to tell him is not even for the ears of an Onicha commoner. Certainly, it is not pig-men business. Will you let us in and grant the royal audience I seek, or must I return to tell my Eze that Onicha is now on bad terms with Eke, that the pig-men have finally come between us?’
The guards whispered among themselves while Anyi and his father waited. When they were done, they opened the gate and granted the pair entrance.
Anyi had heard about Onicha for as long as he could remember, and mostly, it was good. They were a people of intelligence, deep-rooted culture, and a taste for advancement. They were also a people of pride, as most Ogbis were. Walking through the town and seeing how deeply the pig-men had sunk their fangs startled him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. His eyes took in the concrete houses rapidly replacing the mud moulds, the plain cotton prints overtaking the familiar patterned woven fabrics and skin-wear, and, most shocking of all, the erosion of Snake Speak by the Anglon tongue—now so common among the children. He couldn’t help but imagine the same thing happening in Eke Kingdom. He also noticed the eyes: a mass of grey and the occasional flash of blue in black bodies. He had to remind himself that it was rude to stare, though he could not help it.
‘Nnanyi, are you seeing the things I am seeing?’ Anyi asked his father.
‘I don’t even know what to say,’ his father replied.
They moved past a building, a concrete monstrosity larger than anything they had ever seen. From outside, they heard a bell ringing on the roof, where a large cross stood with a man nailed to it. The man was naked save for a cloth around his waist. On his head was some sort of crown woven from thorns, and his hair flowed down like that of the pig-men who walked the grounds in priestly robes. Anyi and his father had come to recognise them.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Nnanyi asked.
‘Perhaps when you meet the Obi, you can ask him yourself.’ The displeasure of the local guard escorting them was evident in his tone, but clearly, forces beyond him made him bite his tongue. Anyi read what he could into it, knowing his father would read more—much more. They left the cross-enshrined building and passed a few places of learning where they saw children sitting on the floor, listening to pig-men dressed in straw hats, khaki shorts, boots, and sleeveless jackets.
‘A B C D E F G H…’
The sounds meant little to Anyi, but he could make out the teachers pointing with their canes at matching symbols—the same symbols he and Nnanyi had noticed on the trees.
‘Hmmm…’ was all Nnanyi could manage.
Their long stroll cut through the changing city, and eventually, they reached the Obi’s palace. It was a vast compound with a huge iron gate planted awkwardly at the centre of a short mud-and-palm-thatched fence. Four guards stood in front, another mix of locals and foreigners. Their escort spoke on their behalf, and they were promptly granted passage. The compound held many mud huts, some being torn down to make room for even more concrete and stone-mix structures. Goats and chickens cried noisily from their pens, while women and children moved about, seeing to their daily business. Sculptures dotted the grounds: men playing opi flutes and ogene drums, women carrying water pots, uzu men hammering on blades and breastplates, large kola nuts, palm wine tappers, and more. The palace was a custodian of culture in itself—a museum of art in so many ways. As they inched closer to the Obi’s dwelling, they saw a new statue being erected. It was still too early to tell what it was, but with two pig-men supervising the construction, Anyi guessed it had nothing to do with Ogbi culture.
‘You may not go any further with your weapons,’ an entrance guard instructed. Anyi and his father wasted no time complying, surrendering their bows, arrows, swords, and short knives.
The Obi’s throne room was circular, with round windows. Three-legged stools were set out for subjects, and woven mats lined the floor. The Obi sat on the throne at the head of the room. In many ways, his throne resembled Eze Eke’s—a large red-cushioned chair with lions carved into the arms and legs. Once, he would have worn only white with a feathered red cap, but today he was dressed in a robe like those of the foreign priests. In his right hand, he held a horse tail as his staff of office. On both sides of the throne, bare-chested guards wielding machetes stood watch. At least, there were no pig-men in sight.
‘Obi’m,’ the escort bowed as he ushered in Anyi and his father. It was perhaps one of the major distinctions between Onicha and Eke: one had a monarchy that ruled by bloodline, and the other followed a priest-guide system based on votes and merit. As a check on abuse of power, tradition dictated that a d’agwu serve as the Obi’s right hand, advising on all matters to ensure decisions served the flourishing of the land rather than the Obi’s personal gain, and that they remained acceptable to Amadioha. On this day, the d’agwu was nowhere to be seen.
‘Obi’m, this man has come from Eke land with his son. He says he carries a message from their Eze and will share it only with you.’
Anyi now watched the Obi closely. It was at this point that he noticed the light on the man’s face did not flicker in the way firelight usually did. He traced the room for a source and was startled to find it on the ceiling. Right above the Obi, an orb of yellow light dangled from a sort of rope, illuminating the otherwise dark room. Surely, this was pig-man technology. Anyi wondered what else they had up their sleeves. The Obi cleared his throat. ‘Very well. Speak to me, messenger.’
Nnanyi paused as if to bite his tongue. Anyi knew what this meant as he was thinking the same thing. But how was one to ask a royal if he had fallen into the hands of the enemy, or if he had even put up a fight? There could not have been one pig-man for twenty Ogbi men in Onicha, so why on earth did they already appear to be dominating? He chose an easier road.
‘Obi, it appears your d’agwu is no longer with you?’ Nnanyi looked around as if still searching for the figure. ‘And this fire that burns above you… I have never seen such a thing before.’
‘Have you come to tell me what you have seen in my kingdom, or to bring me news from yours?’ the Obi countered.
‘I have come with a message. But what use is it if your ears are already deafened, and your heart decided?’
‘I know in Eke you have no king, but you are now in Onicha. It will be wise to watch your speech. Not everything you see is as it appears. So, I will ask you again. Are you here with a message for me, or are you here to make comments about things you know nothing about?’
Even Anyi, who knew little of such conversations, could sense some hesitation—perhaps even restraint—in the Obi’s tone. It was as if the monarch had more to say, but his tongue had been tied. Nnanyi must have sensed it too, because his initial accusatory tone quickly gave way to a more sceptical one.
‘I do not wish to offend. It is only that I have found the…’ He paused,
glancing about as though he feared another might be listening. ‘I have found the pig-men speaking our tongue as if they know what it means to break kola or hold ofor.’
‘I have taken no offence. But in the interest of time, please, let me hear this message you have brought for me.’
Again, Nnanyi looked around. ‘It is a rather sensitive matter, and in this time of wild greying, when our kind are beginning to see with sky-blue eyes, I do not trust that I can share it in the presence of even your most trusted guard.’
The Obi nodded his understanding and instantly waved the room empty, collecting the goat-skin hand fan from his guard to continue cooling himself. Nnanyi and Anyi waited in silence until the room was clear. For the first time, Nnanyi noticed the painting hanging behind the throne. It showed two pig-men, a man and a woman. From the crown on her head and what looked like a staff of office, he figured she was a queen. The man he thought nothing more of, beyond his odd clothes and larger hair. For Anyi, it was the first time seeing a female pig-man.
‘I thank you for your trust, and for your audience,’ Nnanyi began.
The Obi looked around with suspicious eyes.
‘One cannot be too careful in these times. Please, come closer. The world is not as it once was… as it has always been. Now more than ever, it is difficult to tell friend from foe, brother from stranger.’
Anyi and his father shuffled closer, though not so close that they could stretch forth and touch the monarch. In some lands, it was even forbidden to see his face. An arm’s length was close enough.
‘Our bushes now house more pig-men than wild boars, and rumour has it they come with ill intentions. We have heard stories of lands where monarchs have been usurped, exiled to the wild, or carried off to Anglonland like criminals. To speak plainly, we have come to ask for a coalition of forces. Resistance or surrender may be our only options. We have chosen to resist.’
The silence that followed Nnanyi’s words echoed through the room so loudly that Anyi felt it ringing in his ears. He counted about thirty breaths before the monarch spoke.
‘Resistance or surrender, you say.’ The man sighed, expelling a gust of air that sounded like defeat. ‘When you walked in here, I knew the wise Eze of Eke must have been pressured in the cooking pot to send me an Ogbu’agu and his son as messengers, when he could have used any old runner or even a town crier.’ The Obi’s voice was regaining some fervour, but it was still a long shot from the kind of confidence one might have expected from a man of his station. Without the usual ceremony or cunning speech laced with idioms and proverbs for which the Igbos were known, he was direct. ‘Resistance is futile, surrender is a must.’
‘Are you saying you have lost all hope?’ Nnanyi asked.
‘I am saying I am doing what needs to be done. And if the Eze of Eke is as wise as they say he is, he will do the right thing and follow in my footsteps.’
‘Alu!’ Nnanyi blurted, making a circle over his head and snapping his fingers to the ground. ‘Ala forbids such! Don’t say it again. Ever. We must resist!’
‘You listen to me now!’ The monarch’s voice carried a hint of rage, and his nose flared. ‘You do not know what you are dealing with. You have no idea the choices I have had to make. Go and ask what has happened to the resistance in every land the pig-men have set foot in.’ In the bright yellow light, the glaze of tears shone in his eyes, but he would not blink, perhaps afraid they might stream.
‘I did not even send a messenger to Ahaba. I went there myself, by boat through the Isimili River that now runs red with the blood of Ogbi resistance. You think these little rifles are the best they have to offer? You have not seen the one they call the Maxim Gun. In a single instant, it spits more bullets than you can count. And then there are the cannon bombs, grenades… these pig-men, at their most savage, are worse than angry gorillas. I refuse to trade the blood of my people for the pride of my heritage.’
‘But what becomes of your people when they no longer have any heritage? When their mother tongue is replaced by another, sacred symbols swapped for alphabets, Amadioha replaced by the so-called Xrist? Are you saying you have chosen enslavement over freedom?’
‘I am saying I have chosen life over death, whether in chains or in freedom. Do you see no honour in that? Or do you think me a coward?’
Again, silence filled the room. This time, it was deep, dark, and eerie. Anyi had never seen a river of blood, nor heard the beat of a war drum, yet the picture the Obi painted chilled his bones. He turned his gaze to his father, whose turn it was to speak, but Nnanyi seemed to struggle for words.
‘I cannot judge you for the choices you have made. It is not in my place. If I have spoken out of turn, please accept my apologies.’ Nnanyi gave a low bow to show his respects. ‘I will return to Eke and inform the Eze of the situation.’
‘When the ram charges forward and finds no way through, it stops and takes a few steps back,’ the Obi offered his last piece of advice. ‘The Anglonlanders say this differently: he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. It is my belief that as long as time does not die, one day, our people will rise again. But first, they must live. Dead men do not rise, Ogbu’agu. Dead men do not rise.’