A Journey into a Village Cornered by Stones

by Oko Owoicho (Nigeria)

Making a local connection Nigeria

The mild wind that often became rustling through the footsteps of dry leaves, the mountains tinted into whiteness by mist standing indifferent to the mumbling of children, the sun’s appearance behind withered trees making the scenery looked like a painting by a fine artist: they rapped my mind into an awareness of a new vicinity. After spending four days in Lankaviri, a small village in Taraba State, I learnt that dreams don’t change when we change places. After four hours every day of struggling through my action-motivated dreams, fighting and running, I often woke up to the sad discovery that nothing had changed around me. My mind retained the fear and pang of loneliness I carried from home. I travelled to Lankaviri with all my belongings: Travelogue Books, four shirts, three trousers, two white shorts, and two tubers of yam that were forced on me by my stepmother. Lankaviri is a small village cornered by mountains. The mountains were so close one could reach out through the windows and touch them. The first thrill here was mountain burning: it seemed artistic. From afar, the fire gleamed like a dot of cigarette. Then it burns in a thin rectitude line and subsequently takes a different shape of its own choice. The village has a sizeable market comes alive on Mondays. The market was more of a village square where people met for festivity than the exchange of commodities. By sunset, I would take a walk to the square with a pen and a jotter. Inside all the stalls which were made with dry sticks and dry grasses, there were pots of the local brew, burukutu which men and women fetched from with calabashes. In this drinking circle, there was no hint of gender consciousness, or so it seems from the distance that I watched. What intrigued me more on their market days was their sense of art that wasn’t fouled by the craving for money. On one of the market days, I met about fifteen people in a circle dancing and playing different instruments. The most audible was the flute, accompanied by drum and an object that sounded like piles of metal falling on each other. When I went closer to look, I discovered it was the handle of a bicycle with bracelets ringed round it. Another of the instrument was from the left foot of the chorus singer. She stood at a spot in the circle and used the leg with bracelets to hit the earth. What was more fascinating was the way she changed the tone according to the rhythm of the evolving songs. They were dancing in a circle. With their hands swaying aimlessly but in unison, their legs were also moving in calculated strings that don’t seem to demand any effort. I learnt the dance was rawa. They were not dancing for people to spray them money (I watched with expectation but people that came only joined the rhythm of the dance). They were dancing for the beauty and enjoyment of it. What goaded my loneliness was the monotony of activities in Lankaviri. As if the mountains were not too closed up enough on humans to choke one’s breath, every day it was the same people and they often walked with the same gait. A man often passed the front of my compound everyday carrying his goat on his shoulders. There were only two mad people here: a girl in her teens and a young man who always smoked the same brand of cigar. As a small village, one will expect everyone to know and be close to everyone, but the people lived with a kind of indifference that made Lankaviri silent except for Mondays. The silence I thought I was running away from was brought closer to me. My only joy was that it felt beautiful to be lonely in a strange land, at least it saves one the guilt of being lonely at home amid family.