The grasses were
fresh with dew when we arrived; pilgrims in search of an abandoned god. We were
nothing like the Maggi; so we made our journey at the best time of the year –
when the countryside is redolent with the fragrance of blooming flowers. Before
us, the plains of Ojoto spread out in their greenest splendor; heaving with
life. Not knowing what to expect, Odili and I had set forth at dawn. We wended
our way down the slope, tracing the contours of a low hill to the beckoning
grove.
“And they scanned
the forest of oilbean/Its approach; surveyed its high branches...”
My heart swirled
like a whirlwind as we descended the slope. Trees waved a leafy welcome in the
wind. Birds sang in nearby trees. Grasses parted before us and folded
themselves perfectly back together after we walked past. It was all too clear
that we were on a path less trodden; a pathway that would soon lose its place
in memory if nothing was done. Goose bumps erupted all over my body as I
recalled that we were on the same pathway that the great one routinely took to
the river of his childhood. I momentarily shut my eyes to imagine how he must
have felt when he walked this path. Did he walk alone? Did he walk with
anticipation? Or was he just a little boy questing for a still brook to slake
his thirst?
From flesh into
phantom on the horizontal stone/I was the sole witness to my homecoming…
Beside us lay a
deep gully dug by flood in angry protest over the obvious abandonment of the
footpath. Our guide, Simon Fred, a spritely young man, told us that the gully
was once the footpath. The flood claimed it when human traffic thinned out on
it. Fred recalled that he hadn’t been on the footpath since he was boy. To him
too, it was a journey into memory. His voice rose and fell as a gust of wind
swept past us. Soon, we arrived a point where the footpath parted her legs. We
stood still as Fred strove to juggle his memory for the choice that lay before
us. In the darkness of his doubt, he suddenly found the conviction to turn
right. Odili and I preserved his moment of indecision by standing on the nexus
of the road with our hands pointing to different directions of the crossroads
and asked Fred to photograph us.
O Anna at the
knobs of the panel oblong/hear us at crossroads at the great hinges
Soon, we walked
past the shrubs and the poplars and arrived the bamboo grove. The leaves from
the tall gangly trees drooped low to form something that looked like the eaves
of a hut over the footpath. To continue our journey, we had to stoop almost to
a crouch. In that moment, we cut the picture of pilgrims about to enter a
temple of worship. We slid into an enchanting canopy intricately woven by the
bamboo leaves. Above us, the sun struggled to peer down through the thick green
foliage while all around us the bamboo trees curled up like pillars supporting
the floral roof overhead.
Thundering drums
and cannons in palm grove/the spirit is in ascent
Before us, the
bamboo trees formed a curious archway with their illustrious stems that looked
otherworldly. It dawned on me once again that we were on the trail of a
goddess; a river goddess. The archway is the uncanny approach to her watery
presence. Soon, the ground began to feel marshy underfoot as we approached her.
A bird flapped its wings overhead in excitement as we chanced on what looked
like domestic chickens astray in the forest. My curiosity heightened as we
spotted a clearing indicating the absence of trees. I knew it when I saw her
brown surface that we were finally before her – the great Idoto. I knew it when
we stood before poetry’s most illustrious river. Before us, Idoto lay
spread-eagled in the morning sun, its brown surface gleaming in timeless
arrogance.
And the gods lie
unsung/veiled only with mould/Behind the shrinehouse/Gods grow out/Abandoned;
And so do they
Our feet sank in
wet soil beneath. Suddenly, Odili screamed out in delirious excitement and
walked to the lips of the river with infectious interest. He stooped low to
scoop the water and splash across his face. Convulsing with more screams, he
reached down and scooped some more to his lips. I blinked in total disbelief.
How could he drink such water with its frowning surface? I became instantly
alarmed. I feared for him. But turning towards me with a besotted smile he
urged me to follow suit. “Don’t be afraid. The water is clean,” he said. I
doubted my own courage for the first time in a long while. But it was a
challenge and I love certain kinds of challenge. If he could drink Idoto in its
angry state and live… I walked gingerly to the river; crouching, I looked for
my mirrored face on its surface but it was too brown to reflect me. Plucking
some Dutch courage, I scooped some quantity and splashed it on my face. It felt
good. Then I went down again and scooped up more water onto my open lips. It
tasted like natural spring water; peculiarly sweet. I swallowed it and it felt
good. I pulled back from the brinks and
turned to look at Odili. He beamed and gave me a high-five. “We made it!” he
gushed. Then, goose bumps returned to my body as these immortal lines ran
through my mind.
Before you,
mother Idoto/naked I stand; before your watery presence, a prodigal…
I turned around,
looking for an oilbean tree but then I realized that I was not on barefoot. I
imagined how many times, young Christopher Okigbo must have stood within the
perimeter of the spot I was standing to gaze into the rumpled brown face of the
water before me. I recalled the opening paragraph of his Introduction to
Labyrinths – Heavensgate was originally conceived as an Easter sequence. It
later grew into a ceremony of innocence, something like a mass, an offering to
Idoto, the village stream of which I drank, in which I washed, as a child. In
my mind’s eye, I could picture the young poet taking a dip in that river and
rising intermittently to feel the tang of a new cleansing. I scanned the
surrounding verdant green foliage for oilbean trees, totems of Idoto, but I
found none. Time has indeed moved on since young Christopher took his last deep
in Idoto.
Elemental, united
in vision/of present and future/the pure line, whose innocence denies
inhibitions
We left the lips
of Idoto for the bamboo grove. But we did not feel quite the same. We had drunk
of a spell, stronger than the potent libations of the ages. We were now new
personages, possessed of Christopher Okigbo’s restless spirit, his acuity of
vision, his incandescent glow that has refused to go dim.
For we are
listening in cornfields /among the windplayers/listening to the
windplayers/listening to the wind leaning over its loveliest fragment…
From the Bamboo
grove, we wended our way back to the Okigbo compound in Ojoto Uno. But we were
never quite the same people. We were initiates of a new religion, looking for a
rich soil to erect a monument. We met Uncle John Okigbo (Onwa Ojoto), who
oversees the great Okigbo compound. At first, we were unsure of what to expect,
we doubted whether we would be accepted or turned away. But Uncle John was warm
in the way most avuncular uncles often are. Our anxieties soon ebbed away under
his genteel touch. In a few words, we told Uncle John our plan and were stunned
by his enthusiasm. He offered to show us the compound especially the grand old
house where their patriarch raised Christopher and his high-achieving siblings.
Then we must
sing, tongue-tied/Without name or audience/Making harmony among the branches
Just as we were
recovering from his surprising pleasantness, Uncle John gave us another
surprise; he told us that unknown to most people, Christopher Okigbo had a son.
He also made sure that he introduced Onyebuchi Christopher Okigbo whose birth
was conceived just before the heroic poet fell to the bullets of the federal
troops in Opi Junction 48 years ago.
The flower weeps,
unbruised/for him who was silenced/Whose advent dumb-bells celebrate in dim
light with wine song
As we left Ojoto
Uno that day, we knew we would soon return. The theme came to us without effort
– The Return to Idoto; the eventual resolution of the quest for the planting of
solid literary roots in the South East of Nigeria and the final return of
artistic excellence to the source of its birth…
O Mother Idoto!
Hear me from your aquatic bedchamber! Christopher Okigbo’s children are finally
here! Open your arms wide for a liquid embrace!
Written by By
James Eze (eziokwubundu@gmail.com)