"We seldom get into trouble when we speak softly. It is only when we raise our voices that the sparks fly and tiny molehills become great mountains of contention."
“One word frees us
of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love.” -
Socrates
My
choice memories go back to my early boyhood in an obscure eastern
Nigerian village. Given the amenities in the homes I now live in, it
is easy to understand the ignorant attitude of folks who call us
savages and our dwellings huts.
True,
our hut had no plumbing, no electricity, and the heating came from
firewood that sometimes smoked out an entire colony of ants —
so many, in fact, lizards not only came jostling for a harvest but
actually set up shop.
Yet
our mud and thatch hut brimmed not only with bugs but with hugs. The
cries of newborn babies were never wanting and so were lullabies.
Basic as our life was, no one ever abandoned his or her family.
As
for stories and soaring songs, well, my numberless uncles, aunts,
parents, distant cousins, hangers-on and even total strangers who
passed the night with us to be on their way the next day or next or
next until they never left, had quivers-full of them.
I
slept with these stories and songs, heard them repeated and
improvised so often they throb in my head even now. They stalked,
instructed, shaped and molded my life, my attitude and my aptitude.
Our little hut of a home was a community within a community; it had
its magic and seduction.
Though poor by outside standards, yet folk
retained their dignity. Besides moonshine and tobacco, I never heard
of drugs, food stamps, or people living in shelters.
In
our hut, one hand spanked me for bad behavior while the other drew me
close for a tight and warm embrace. A cooing voice always re-assured
all was well. Tenderness and love made up for all its meager
facilities. Suicide was taboo and anything that ever got shot was
wild game.
The
Haitian poet and novelist, Rene Philoctete’s, succinct remark
rings true of where I was raised. “Home is a seed planted in
the earth. It must be whole to grow, to bear fruit.”
Most
folks walked barefoot, their heels cracked and broken, their skin
scaly from harsh weather and hard, backbreaking work under a sun
powerful enough to cause heatstroke and hallucination among those not
used to it. Painful as these feet were, folks still walked long
distances on tracks beaten into paths by those same hurting legs.
In
the jungle, there were no drugstores, so folks made do with herbs,
roots, and barks. We had no restaurants either. Any villager who
patronized any in the town five miles away was scorned as prodigal. Most
walked with their upper bodies naked. What use was clothing anyway in
our intense, moist heat?
Folks
were folks not because of finery but because they watched out for
others. If a neighbor or relation returned from a long journey those
left behind trooped out to welcome him or her. Sometimes the traveler
brought back peanuts and bread and shared among the people who
accepted and ate happy that the traveler returned safe from
ambush-minded roads.
Just
as we celebrated the birth of babies, we also mourned when people
died, for the death of one was the death of the community. Of course
people died, often from treatable diseases. Mourners who threw
themselves on dirt in sorrow were promptly lifted up by sympathizers.
Some who threatened to leap into the graves of their dear departed
were restrained by able-bodied men.
Our
community was pretty much isolated. Apart from American Peace Corp
doctors who sometimes visited my primary school to deworm kids and
give shots against communicable diseases, visitors were rare.
Close-knit, our small village was made up of families who traced
their origins to a common ancestor. The
only strangers still vivid even now in my mind’s eyes were
Muslim itinerant traders who floated in and out of the village every
once in a while in grubby, shroud-like gowns. They hawked anything
from high potency herbs and roots to wristwatches, trinkets to
Arabian perfumes the scent of which was so strong it masked the smell
of decaying corpses.
As
they approached our home they hailed us with a friendly greeting,
“Sannu!” (probably meaning hello) and our parents who had
previously lived in cities and perhaps familiar with diverse folks
shouted back “Sannu da zuwa” (possibly meaning welcome).
As they got closer they said, “Salaam alaikum” or simply
“Salaam,” Muslim phrases which our parents said meant
“peace be unto you” or just, “peace.”
To
my ears, though the language sounded attractively unusual, it was
musical and incantatory. The way they said or rather chanted their
greetings was something I could relate to, for it sounded very like
oral poetry so common among us.
In
our oral traditions, incantations and chants were very much part of
our speech and song culture. In rendition, these were pretty much a
performance so when we heard the strangers speak the way they did, it
appealed as familial. To their greetings our parents responded
“Amalaikun salaam” or something that sounded close to
that.
I
admired my parents that they could speak a language different from
ours. It did not matter all they knew were merely phrases of these
languages, for after the greetings all other business was conducted
by gestures, a language everyone understood though no words were
spoken.
It
wasn’t just the greetings that I could connect with. The way
they did business was also similar to what I was used to seeing my
mother do at our local markets. The two sides, the seller and the
buyer, haggled over the cost of items they were bargaining for. The
negotiation was persistent, often starting from a high side until it
was beaten down to the lowest price or something agreeable to both
sides.
No
insults were ever exchanged, only respect and humor.
Also,
although their way of worship was curious, we showed respect for
their ablutions and prayers because our parents taught us that our
way of ritual cleansing would seem strange to others too. They always
carried on their shoulders a rolled-up mat, a walking stick upon
which hung a kettle and water bottle.
At
prayer times they brought down their mat, unrolled and spread it,
washed their faces, hands, and feet with water from the kettle, and
swished their mouths and facing the east, bowed until their foreheads
touched the mat and stood back up again. While repeating this mode of
worship several times, they counted beads and chanted their prayer in
much the same way our elders intoned incantations while pouring
libation.
Because
they prayed every so often and with strange gestures, village wags
taunted that if wellbeing was based on prayers alone they would have
been the wealthiest on earth. By this the clowns meant if the
traders’ prayers were answered as often as they prayed they
would not be trekking in the blistering sun from north to south
selling their wares. But that was just how far the jokes went.
When
a few years later these same men became crazed suicide bombers, I
shuddered and asked what went wrong? When our leaders turned rogue
and built palaces with stolen public funds, I asked which was better
— the inclusive huts or the gated mansions? When backwoods
towns roared into impersonal and unplanned cities ringed by
inglorious slums, I wondered, where did we lose it?
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.