“Cowards, at home and abroad”

It was the first Sunday of the month, a day sacred to all the agininyobe, idemfo-o, kedu and igbate peoples of the region between River Benue and the Bight of Biafra. On that day, all the sons of the soil and their families come together to reaffirm and celebrate their kinship and work out their never-ending strategies for bringing perpetual light, running water, roads and medications to the villages they left behind in their search for a living wage in the big bad city. It was also a day of fear and trembling for slow-pokes and latecomers because, according to the radio announcement of the day before, latecomers will be subjected to torture so terrible (aga ata ha nnukwu afufu!!) they would rather be dead.

So you can see why I suspended my bad habit of taking life too easy that day. I left my house early, and, mercifully, Sunday traffic is so light (dis na Lagos again?) that I had no trouble reaching the meeting venue in good time.

This day was also special because we welcomed two families who had just returned home after many years abroad. When spoken to, the children of one family replied in halting but clear Igbo, putting a smile of appreciation on everyone’s face. But the children of the other family spoke nothing but English, and their parents were so embarrassed they hid under the table to escape the egusi soup and jollof rice being thrown at them. “No be de same oyiboland where you all go-come? What were you doing all those years that you couldn’t even teach your children common Igbo?”

Finally the unhappy couple crawled out from under the table and started firing back.

“Look at you,” said the brother-man. “Some of you living right here in Lagos, your children can’t speak a word of Igbo!”

“Yes,” said his wife, “isn’t that an abomination?”

The hall fell silent. The man picked up the transparent cellophane bag of shame and threw it at the ceiling fan. It shattered and flew everywhere. Pandemonium broke out. Everyone ran for cover, shielding their faces from the stinking slimy mess.

It took ten minutes before the Chairman succeeded in restoring order. “Umuokoroji kwenu!”

No one paid any attention. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Umuokoroji mma mma nu! Kwenu!! Kwenu!!!”

The home group was crushed. They started shouting and flinging their arms about. The Chairman tried to placate them but it was no good. A battle-royal began.

“You cowards!” yelled the home group. “You ran away from Nigeria because you couldn’t take it anymore. Now you don tire for oyibo, you run back home yellow-footed (okpa nta odo-odo) expecting things that cannot be bought in Ogbete, Ariaria, or Ogwumabiri, never giving praise, always giving criticism, no appreciation of what we’ve gone through.”

“Who is the coward here?” the party of return fired back. “We who were abroad doing all sorts of kwangara jobs, sweeping streets, cleaning toilets, and standing on our feet twelve hours a day selling someone else’s merchandise, and wiring money home every month to keep you from starving to death . . . ?”

“. . . Or you who sat at home and let these criminals who call themselves politicians walk all over you, chop the whole money, and you did nothing about it?”

“You did nothing! Nothing! You miserable cowards!”

“All you have is excuses. Explanations. Lamentations about what the politicians have done to you. But what have you done to the politicians in return? Nothing!”

“If you knew just a little history,” said the brother, “you would know what other people in other places did to the bad leaders and political criminals of their day—in England, America, France, Japan, Russia, China, Iran, Cuba, Philippines, Burma. The list is endless. Just last week it was Thailand. It’s called a people’s revolution. . . .”

“Another name for war. War between the people and their exploiters. It makes no difference that they are of the same blood, same language, same color, same race. Your enemy is your enemy. The exploiters show no mercy. The people equally should show no mercy. During the civil war such people were called sabo—and you know what Ojukwu did to them, with full support from all of us.”

A profound sadness had fallen over the assembly. The Chairman stared absently, first at the ceiling, then at the floor. Then he found his voice. “So now, who is the coward?” he asked, pointing the question at no one in particular. “Is it those who ran away from the fight, or those who stayed behind but refused to fight?”

No answer. He looked at me. “Say something, O.J.—or are you not one of us again?”

Before I could voice out my confusion…

“Allright-o.” It was one of the home group. “Mr. Know-It-All with his brother Mr. Okacha-mara. Sabi kpukpuru dem. You have come home. We shall see how you will fight this fight. . . .”

Onwuchekwa Jemie