Ada and I

Things returned to the norms after the departure of the white man. It had been a long time since we experienced this, but gradually, it was as if the people of Akpotu remembered what it used to be like before the strangers took over our land. The white man left with some of their mess for us to clean up. The village now has a school, where all the children of the chiefs are expected to attend. Also, there are two churches in the town, one at the outskirts and one very close to the market square. The church is very similar to the village meeting, where the way of life and a new set of principles are pronounced, and people are expected to adhere to them.
Father Nnamdi is the new person people confess to. Since the departure of the white man, fewer people lined up for the periodical confession. It is not that they sin less, but now that their own person is in the position to bear the sin, they, the villagers, don’t want to confess anymore. When Father Nnamdi took over, it was just because he and his family were the first to convert to the foreign religion, and they had been with the white man the longest.
People don’t respect him the way they respected the white man in the same position. But one thing is clear: Father Nnamdi’s reputation has grown more since he took over the position. This is because he knows most of the secrets in the village, and most of his members are the wives of our village chiefs. Since he took over, he has been enjoying a lot of benefits, like the constant gifts from the women of the village. Maybe so he doesn’t reveal their secrets but they can’t help it.
Another thing the white man left in his wake is the change in the dressing of the village chiefs, of which my father is one. Rather than leave their chests bare, with their wrappers tied around their waists while attending to village matters, they now prefer to wear the suit of the white man, along with their wrappers, red caps, and feathers. The first time they adopted this mode of dressing, it was a struggle among the villagers to accept.
The suits were a gift given to the village chiefs by the white man for their cooperation in ensuring the development of the village. I often watched as my father hung his suit in his obi, only to wear it whenever there was a meeting among his fellow chiefs. It shows a kind of respect, almost like a cult among his colleagues.
The meetings were often among family heads and titled men. As the first son of my father, I often accompanied him to the meetings by carrying his stool for him. It was on one of these usual voyages that I got to see Ada, the daughter of Ichie Faro.
Ichie Faro is a respected man in the village and even among the chiefs. Whenever my father talks about him, he often praises him for his commitment to standing by the truth. He is a long talker whom everyone expects to speak when he has something to say, and when he doesn’t, it’s not because he has nothing to say, but because he doesn’t want to lie.
Ichie Faro has seven daughters and no son. He is married to only one wife, and one would know he tried his best to bear a son for himself, but all to no avail. He prefers to allow his daughter to carry his stool for him to the meeting, a job traditionally meant for the boy of the house. I believe this is his way of showing that he is proud of his daughters.
Ada is a fine girl, with shining white teeth and a round body. She would often stay apart from us boys during the meetings while we waited for our fathers to be done. I often glanced at her periodically during such meetings. What struck me was how comfortable she could be alone and how restful her energy was.
She became a source of anticipation for these meetings. I started to look forward to seeing her, and as time went on, we got talking.
Not only that, but she also enrolled in the white man’s school and became my classmate. Ada and I became close friends, and we hardly left each other alone. She became familiar with my friends, and I became familiar with hers. She would follow me deep into the bush to hunt, and I would follow her to pick fruits with her friends. We became the envy of the town.
As time went on, the villagers started calling us husband and wife, but we never really minded. Between Ada and me, we were only friends and didn’t see ourselves that way.
When we were done with the white man’s school, I started to actively follow my father to the farm so I could further help the family in such manly aspects. Ada, on the other hand, would follow her mother to the market to sell farm produce and vegetables. In those days, we were only able to see each other in the evening. We would walk through the village path, holding each other’s hands, to the envy of our friends. It became something we often did almost every evening, except when our responsibilities to our families overlapped.
It was on one of these days, during the festive period while walking with Ada, that her uncle, who lived in the city, drove into town with his Benz. We greeted him, and he asked Ada to enter the car, then they drove off. In that instant, I started to feel a nudging in my heart, a tightening in my chest.
I became so restless; it was like I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to challenge it. The Ogalu festival was in two days, so a lot of preparations were going on to mark the yearly festival. It was a time when people in the diaspora would come home and visit.
The next time I saw Ada, her face seemed dull. it didn’t light up like it used to.
She told me they didn’t want to leave her alone. That her uncle had come to take her away to the city so she could become a nurse. When I heard that, it was hard for me to breathe; it was as if I was having a seizure.
I thought of how much time we had spent together, what would become of me when Ada left? It was like watching a bird mate fly away while I remained trapped in a cage.
The day Ada was to leave the village, I was on the farm with my father, and I swore in that instant to also gain my freedom and fly away from this cage like Ada.
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