THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD, A NOVEL, CONTINUED

Four

Surviving Brutality

    Beauty sometimes brings so much pains and sorrows to them who possess it. This was my situation and that of all the pretty maidens, who were taken captive, for we soon became objects of sex appeal, and sex objects appreciated only for our ability to provide sexual gratification to the oba and his warriors. My case turned out worse however, for while some of the girls were sent to grace the oba’s bed, and others abused by the warriors; usually violently, I was subjected to both.

            My beauty and feminine features seemed to surpass my age, and so I was seen as a mature young lady, instead of a girl. For countless number of nights I was separated from the slaves and taken to a secluded part of the bush, where I was violently stripped and raped by several warriors. On the first night, I was taken to a dark, bushy area by a flowing stream of fresh water, by five hefty, muscular and able-bodied men, in their late twenties. As they led me out of the camp, my mother wailed,

      ‘Onu wetam nwam, bring my daughter back’ she yelled, tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried following the men, before one of them pulled her back.

      ‘Sit down, old woman, or I’ll whip your back open!’ he said, with a frown, his eyes widely open. One of the men, ordered me to undress and lie flat on the bare, cold, and sandy ground, and when I refused, he slapped me severally on both cheeks. Rivulets of blood streamed down both ends of my mouth as I wept. Two others then stripped me of the threadbare draperies that hung loosely from my shivering body. I shivered not for the cold breezes that blew into the shores of the Benin kingdom, sipping through the pores of my skin, but for the brutality and violence in the eyes of these mean men.

    I was then pushed to the ground, and as they thrust their lower member forcefully and violently in and out of my sacred region, in turns, I bled profusely, for I was a virgin, and as I wriggled in pain, the rough edges of pieces of sand grit pricked my skin, adding to the excruciating pain I felt. That experience left an indelible effect on my mind. It was an event I still struggle to forget. To worsen my ordeal, while I was yet to recover from the abdominal pain I felt, and could even hardly walk, I was included in the group of maidens who were sent to the oba’s palace the following morning. More so, while other girls visited the oba’s home once or twice a week, I gradually became the king’s constant sexual partner. Most painful of all was that we were not just sexually but physically abused. We were usually whipped and beaten by these warriors just to make us yield. They did not even care if we were in our sacred period, and after the exploitation we were fed with little or nothing. I remember shedding tears of anguish all through the period after such inhumane treatment, and loosing my appetite, for I never thought a day like this will come when I will loose my virginity to a man other than my husband; may be Dimpka I thought, and be treated like a piece of rag.

       The months and years following our capture, were filled with much anguish and bloodshed. The male slaves of all ages were sent to till the oba’s farm land spanning over 20 acres of land, having haphazardly occurring Iroko and Mahogany trees with tough barks, and plants with thickets and rough leaves; all reflecting the strength, magnificence and cruelty of the Benin kingdom. Others were made to do the smith’s work. It was a grueling activity, and as if not enough for these slaves, the warriors whipped blood out of them each time their strength failed. As a result most of them died on the farm land and were thrown into the rivers. Some where even used for ritual sacrifices to appease the Benin gods. This period brought so much emotional pain to me. I felt traumatized for weeks, and was plagued with suicidal thoughts. Though young, my face had turned old with wrinkles, each bearing the cruel mark of hardship. Even laughter became a total stranger. I hadn’t laughed for so long, I had forgotten how my ever ebullient laughter, as a child sounded. Back home mama told me, they laughed very often. They laughed as they shuffled down the stream, their udu, Water-pots, masterfully seated on roundly-folded wrappers, carefully balanced on their heads, covered in well-plaited corn-rows. They laughed as they swallowed spherical balls of akpu, garri, dipped in plates of deliciously prepared ufe insala. They also laughed as they sat by the fire as children, listening to ancient folklores told them by their elders. But now, the ever-cheerful mama, whose constant laughter and smiles, created very deep dimples on her cheeks, hardly laughed. She spent most of her day lying or seating, sighing and hissing over her present life. All the laughter and happy times seem to have been blown away by the winds of slavery. Laughter was now a distant, foreign land.

     Unable to survive the brutality of slavery and the fact that we were kept in open cages, where we were drenched in the rains and defenseless against mosquito bites, my parents soon fell ill and I feared they might die. One morning, I had been to their cage, since we were separated from each other, to greet them, but they surprisingly were still asleep. I then sat besides them and began shaking them to wake them up.

               ‘Papa, mama, kunie, chiborla, get up, it’s day break’

   But their bodies felt cold and stiff. Immediately I was frightened, and knelt down, bending to listen to their heart beats. Though the noise from the other slaves, speaking and quarreling were loud enough to prevent me from hearing, I knew their hearts had stopped beating. Confused and alarmed, I kept on shaking them and screaming aloud, attracting the attention of the slaves and guards, my lips and hands quivering. I was shouting and calling uncle Agu’s name, tears in my eyes and my voice almost drowned in sorrow.

                ‘Chimo, papa, mama, nnanyi Agu, Igwekaala’ Uncle Agu then ran to the cage, and joined me in shaking them.

                ‘Ichei Nduka! Ichie Nduka!’ seeing no response, he lifted up his eyes, and shook his head in a sorrowful manner.

                ‘Mmm’ he growled.

                ‘Dimpka anaaa, alu, ichie Nduka ana’ he said, drawing his last word, as he pried me away from the lifeless bodies, clasping my hands so tightly, I could feel the coldness of his palms, telling me they were dead.

                ‘Mba, isigini’ I asked though I heard him clearly. Not waiting for a response, I screamed, my hands on my head. I wept and sobbed as I watched the guards who won’t let us bury them, toss the dead bodies of the two people who brought me into this world, into the river. We were not allowed to bury them even at uncle Agu’s explanation that as an ‘ichie’, a titled chief, custom demanded papa, and his wife be given a befitting burial. The death of my parents left a heavy cloud of silence and grief hanging above the slave camps for months. A death of such kind had never happened in the camp. Life became meaningless to me after the death of my parents. An orphan, I felt like a vessel left adrift on the open sea, and for the second time, thought the best option was to take my life and join my parents. For months, I lived, slept and woke up in tears and sorrows. They were the food I ate and the water I drank. I was grief-stricken, and even the presence and condolence of uncle Agu and Dimkpa could do nothing to alleviate my grief.

           In the wake of these painful experiences, the slave camp was filled with much wailings and crying. Husbands lost their wives; and so did wives. Parents lost their children; and so did children. One day, as I sat in the cage, looking at the fresh green prolific grasses, watered by abundant rains, and enjoying the cool breezes of the air, as they swayed happily and freely from left to right, I wondered when like those grasses, the Nri people shall be free to blossom in freshness, and enjoy the free gifts of nature. I wished all these sufferings were a dream, and that they would come to an end at the break of dawn. But as it were, that dream was out of sight and it grieved me even more that I could do nothing to save my people from the brutal hands of slavery. Much worse, was that instead of being awakened to a dawn of freedom, to a morning of liberation, the people of old Nri kingdom soon woke up to another phase of slavery that was yet to unravel.