Bonfires Of The Gods

BONFIRES

OF

THE

GODS

INCLUDEPICTURE https://storage.needpix.com/rsynced_images/divider-37709_1280.png \* MERGEFORMATINET

a novel

Andrew Eseimokumo Oki

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First edition published by Serene Woods, India, 2011

Second edition published by Griots Lounge, Nigeria, 2012

Copyright © 2019 by Andrew Eseimokumo Oki

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Carline Fhurst Publishing LLC, New Jersey.

[email protected]

The Phoenix colophon is a trademark of Carline Fhurst Publishing LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN – 978-1-791-68723-6

Printed in the United States of America

Edited by Becky Barton, Amara Chimeka

Book cover design by Fred Martins

Author photograph by Thierry Tamfu

For Etipou and Denyefa; the ones we’ve lost.

For my beloved city, Warri.

For my beloved Abonomor.

"Power and violence are opposites; where one rules absolutely, the other is absent. Violence appears where power is in jeopardy, but if left to its own cause, it ends in power's disappearance."

HANNAH ARENDT

Praise for Bonfires of the gods.

Oki weaves an intricate yet impressive narrative with a deftness that befits practiced hands. In Bonfires of the gods, an important contribution to the Niger Delta discourse, our frailty as a nation comes to fore, as ethnicity erodes community. – Uche Peter Umez, author of Tears in Her Eyes

Bonfires of the gods is very well written and quite deeply researched; the author shows off his creative chops and interweaves it with hands-on knowledge of the area he is writing about. – Myne Whitman, Managing Editor, Naijastories.com

Bonfires of the gods is hot. It is one thing to be a storyteller and another thing to be a story-shower. Andrew Eseimokumo Oki possesses both powers, but as you listen to his voice, you will find all the necessary requisites integral to a good story. What makes this an extraordinary story is the ordinary style by this writer. I loved it. – Onyeka Nwelue, Author The Abyssinian Boy.

Andrew Eseimokumo Oki has shown his strength as a griot, delving into a theme so daring in such a captivating manner. Every page brings new people and gets you reading. Here is a brilliant debut. – Binyerem Ukonu, Author The Water was Hot.

Bonfires of the gods, true to its nature, is uniquely African, a beautifully told story and very quintessentially historical and true to the African experience… – Urban Royale Magazine

Bonfires of the gods is certainly a work that should be given

its due significance for taking on the much-needed task of urging Nigerians to remember those events in their past that though unhappy should not be forgotten. – Brittle Paper, UK

Being a witness to the unnecessary crimes associated with the ethnic wars between the Ijaws and Itsekiris in 1997, I could relate with the deep, yet unbiased emotions depicted in this high work of art Bonfires of the gods - Dele Elempe, Author Season of Imperfection.

Oki’s Bonfires of the gods is not only thrilling and informative, it is one of the best war stories ever told in recent times as it beautifully weaves love, friendship, loyalty and intense romance into a heartrending war story. With this debut, Andrew Eseimokumo Oki boldly pens his name in the list of burgeoning contemporary African writers. – Echezonachukwu Nduka for Bella Naija

…Centered on subjects as gruesome as inter-ethnic rivalry and war, it is amazing how Oki can weave love, friendship, marriage and loyalty into the story…. - Amara Chimeka, Literary Critic.

Prologue.

Duwamabou.

IT RAINED THE DAY I DIED. Every drop that fell on the zinc roofing sheets sounded like pebbles landing on my head. I felt a quiver, as if the building was shaking. Or, was it my body shuddering?

Rain.

I often wonder what the phenomenon behind it is. Is God crying up in heaven? Who knows? I wonder why He would choose a day like this to cry. Sometimes, I do not even remember He is up there.

The rain pours on with incredible ferociousness. Maybe there is a leak in heaven’s water banks, and Earth is suffering the consequences. Whatever it is, I do not know. I decide to leave it to the rainmakers to figure out.

The downpour does not stop.

I always know Warri is a no-go area when it rains; so, I turn to look at the window, thinking I will see a bit of the city outside. Instead, I see streaks of tear-like water flowing down the window glass. It catches my attention.

Even the windows are crying for me!

I smile. My eyes are closing, and still I can count the streaks on the glass. It is a funny feeling. I think I can see myself laughing.

One, two, three, four… I try to keep count, but each time, new streaks replace the old ones. I know it is foolish to account for such things, but somehow it gives me hope. It keeps my mind busy. It is as if it could take the pain away, and I hold on to it with more faith than I have in the doses of morphine pumping through my dying body.

The storm continues. Loud cracking thunderclaps chase after flashes of lightning like children playing catch in the sand banks of the River Niger in Patani.

I remember when my childhood friends and I used to say that thunderclaps were the result of applauses in heaven. We believed that wars happened because the gods of the Earth felt cold and stopped watching over us to gather large trees to make bonfires to keep themselves warm. How young we were! We knew these theories were baseless and silly, but we believed them anyway.

My eyelids droop in a slow-motion blink. I look around and for the first time it occurs to me that I am in a hospital. I cannot move my body, but it is trembling in pain. How I got here is a mystery to me. My memory is still in fragmented pieces. I remember waking in my own bed, this morning, breathing in the fresh air and looking forward to a wonderful day. I remember the warm shower I took, a stark contrast to the cold rain outside. I hated the shirt I picked out to wear for work, but I wore it anyway. I do not have many shirts. I remember having jollof rice with moi-moi. It is my favorite, and my mother knows that. I also remember the screams and the running. There was fire, consuming everything in its path, and the sounds of gunshots; then, darkness.

From my periphery, I can see two nurses talking. I have no idea what they are saying to each other. I guess it is about me, because one of them soon comes over to my bedside.

She has a pretty oval-shaped face and smooth, hot-chocolate colored skin, and cherry red lips. Her beautiful black hair sits atop her head in well-cultivated corn-rows. She has no make-up on, but her face shines like dark colored honey. I notice the tiny beautiful gold pins she has for earrings. Her slim neck is bare and smooth.

I absorb all these thoughts in what seems like forever, as she looks down upon my face. If only I was not so dead on that bed …

I could have given her pleasures that would send her to the high heavens and kiss her lips to nothingness, replacing them with that of the goddess Athena’s, and she would keep wanting more, every minute of every passing day.

What I could do …

She bends over me to examine my body, her sumptuous breasts dangling right in front of my face, as she checks my vitals. Even though I am dying, I realize there is a part of me that is not so dead and weak. That part cheers and nudged in agreement between my thighs. I can feel its solidification, and I wish I can lay claim to the bounty set before me.

Her breasts hang over me, in lovely contrast to the certain death that looms over my head. I begin to think of what my passing will feel like and where I am going to end up. Am I going to heaven or hell? Will I spend some quality time in Duwamabou with my grandmother beside me, helping me think about what my life could have been? I shiver at the thought. I cannot feel my legs anymore, and I very much want to give pleasure to the beautiful young nurse. Yet, nothing matters to me as much as the fear of going to Duwamabou.

Duwamabou! I was just a child when I first heard that word. It was the funniest Ijaw word I had ever heard. Of course, that was before I knew what it meant. I liked the musical pronunciation of the word. It sounded like Drummer boy to me. My siblings and I do not speak much of our native Ijaw language. Pidgin English is our primary language; so, like other children, the quickest and easiest Ijaw words we pick up are those of acute vulgarity. Duwamabou is one of them.

Duwamabou, or the halfway house of souls, is neither heaven nor hell, according to what we grew up believing. It is a place where the spirits of the dead go to handle their unfinished business before passing on to their eternal afterlife. As for me, I do not understand the whole concept of Duwamabou. However, as I lie there, dying, I think of Duwamabou for what seems like hours.

Is my dead grandmother still there? She has been dead for ten years. She must have settled her unfinished business and moved from the ‘halfway house.’ Can she still be there? Will I see her when, or if, I get there? What will I tell her?

‘What brings you knocking on Duwamabou’s door?’ I imagine her asking me in her stern voice, with all the love in the world reflecting in her eyes.

I realized I do not want to die. Not for the normal reasons why people do not want to die. Of all things, I am afraid of not having a reasonable explanation for my granny if she asks me what I am doing in Duwamabou.

My nurse begins speaking to a woman wearing a white coat. I have not seen the white-coated woman there before. I cannot hear what my beautiful nurse is saying, but I see the white-coated woman rush toward my bed. I can see blurry images before my eyes. I turn again to look at the window. It is still raining, I guess, but I cannot hear the rain drops anymore. I look for the streaks of rainwater, but it is difficult to adjust my focus. I began to panic. Thoughts of Duwamabou still race through my head.

God, what is happening?

The white-coated woman shoves the nurse away and places her palms on my chest. She begins to push hard. I cannot feel anything. I cannot move, but I know I am still alive. I do not want to close my eyes, for fear that they would never open again. I am looking up, but instead of the ceiling, I see clouds in a beautiful blue sky. I try to smile. I cannot hear the commotion around me, but I can see the doctors fight to save my life. Now, I can only hear the chirps of birds. I can see a fleet of birds flying in the clouds above my bed.

Just as I am beginning to smile at the beauty around me, the blue sky begins to darken and fade. It happens so fast I cannot comprehend it. I look on still as the sky turns black. I panic.

Oh God!

I have lost count of my streaks of rainwater on the window.

Gone is my beautiful nurse with the pair of sumptuous breasts.

My magical white-blue sky has vanished.

I lose all hope.

Then, I know that I am dead and on my way to Duwamabou.

God! What will I tell Grandmother?

Warri, Nigeria

March 1997.

One.

Tonye and Laju

GRANDMOTHER WAS A LITTLE CRAZY, everyone knew that.

Everyone feared to approach her doorstep, let alone knock. People wondered if anyone ever visited her. But of course, people did. People always visited Grandmother. She was the heart and soul of the Itsekiri community in Warri. She was everyone’s mother, although a little intimidating. Grandmother commanded a great deal of respect, and she did so with such grace and poise that some wondered what supernatural entity bestowed it upon her.

When people visited, she always insisted they remove their footwear before stepping into her house. She called her living room her Persian living room, because of the wall-to-wall expensive, hand-made Persian rugs she had had shipped in from Cairo, Egypt during one of her trips abroad.

Even when the Delta State Military Administrator visited and did not remove his shoes, Grandmother had performed her usual drama before him. Upon his arrival, she had asked one of her maids to make sure to ask him to remove his shoes. The maid had been so embarrassed by that instruction and was so afraid of the man’s personage that she had just let him in, mumbling a meek, Welcome, sir. When Grandmother noticed that he still had his shoes on, she had questioned the maid about it, in his presence. The governor had apologized on the maid’s behalf and offered to take off his shoes, and Grandmother had turned to him and smiled.

Don’t mind my maid. Sometimes, she forgets these things, she had said instead.

That was who Grandmother was. To her family, she was just Grandmother. To the rest of the community, she was Chief Oritsegbene Dawson.

People used her name with great respect, including her own children. She was a strong woman who ran her household with an iron fist, but no one could measure the love she had for her children and grandchildren, and she would go to any length to prove it.

*

Are you sure your grandma will like me? I’ve heard so many things about her, and I’m a little scared, Tonye said, smiling.

You worry too much, Tonye. She’ll love you. My grandma may be old fashioned but a brute and a bigot she is not, Laju said, rubbing her fiancé’s head.

I sure hope so. Where do I turn? He asked, teasing, as they approached a road sign that read Oritsegbene Dawson Drive.

Yeah, right. Very funny.

Wow! Don’t tell me everyone living on this street is Itsekiri, Tonye said. He looked from side to side as he drove down the beautiful boulevard.

Well, not everyone. We have some Urhobos, Yorubas, and of course, the Tolanis.

Yeah, the couple you told me about. The man who is Itsekiri and his wife is Ijaw. It is practically an Itsekiri family now, so the combo doesn’t exclude them.

"I hear you Lawyer Nwanjoku!" She said, laughing.

"Heavens, please don’t call me that. Any other lawyer yab will do, but please baby, not the Nwanjoku one," Tonye said.

Oh! I see someone doesn’t like his name ehn.

"Baby abeg stop am."

We’re here.

Sorry?

I said we’re here. Look, that’s Grandma’s house, she said, pointing to a mansion just across the street.

"Wow! That is your grandmother’s house?" Tonye asked, his mouth agape.

Yep, it is. Close your mouth honey, Laju said.

Tonye closed his mouth, embarrassed.

And remember… Laju said.

"I know, I know. ‘Remove your shoes before entering my Persian living room, blah blah blah. She for kuku import the whole living room from China na," he said. They both laughed as he turned off the ignition.

Honey, behave, Laju said, composing herself.

I will. Gosh, your grandmother’s house is beautiful. And there I was thinking that my grandparents had the most beautiful house on earth, he said.

In your mind. Which house? You mean the spread of huts they built in the late seventeenth century? Laju said. Tonye was cracking her up.

Tonye grew serious, silence had replaced his humor.

After a few quiet moments, the couple exited the car and stared up at the house.

Tonye regarded the house with awe. Chief Oritsegbene Dawson’s mansion was of modern architecture. Tonye could see the entire building from across the road where they parked, because the block fence was not very high. Above the blocks were elegant see-through iron bars.

Anyone approaching the mansion might expect to see a queen. Tonye sure felt that way. The design was French, but it resembled something from the Gregorian era. Tonye recognized the style from spending too much time reading Architectural Digest. The French windows held the rising sun captive, while the mirrored glasses threw sunlight over the beautiful green front lawn. The lush carpet of