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by Mesoma Igbokwe (Nigeria)

Making a local connection Nigeria

It was 3 pm, the sun was out in all its glory, my father and I had walked for about 10 kilometers north of our country home, I didn’t know where we were headed, but I had resolved to trust him, this one time. We didn’t agree on many issues, he hated my travelling, I hated his culture, we only shared a mutual love for Akanweze, his mother, my grandmother; she was buried yesterday. We were on a tortuous desire-path, walled by thick bushes, it was obvious that this path, though on the outskirts of the village, was an important route for all. This village that bred my grandmother and my father, but not me, my mother had raised me in the city, I was only back for the funeral rites of a woman I loved so much. I hated this place, I hated that my father chose this village over watching me grow, I hated that its inhabitants had convinced Akanweze that her swollen limb was an attack from her enemies and fed her herbal concoctions until she died of a pulmonary embolism. I was jolted out of my reverie by a melody comparable to Beethoven’s, a thick bush path still lay ahead of us, but I heard water burbling from a height and hitting solid beneath it, harmonized by the chirping of the African sun bird. “That’s the sound of Ogbagada, the waterfall”, he explained, “it’s signalling the beginning of the harmattan season, our own version of winter”. I needed a retreat after the funeral and he suggested this voyage to Ezeagu waterfalls, the pride of the eastern heartlands of Nigeria. Suddenly the bushes gave way and ushered me to twenty-two hectares of paradise. I finally saw it, the water rushing down a cliff with such force as if to sweep off any obstacle, down a height of twenty-five meters, till it melted into a serene river that provided irrigation for the foliage and laundry for the locals. Tall trees towered above this natural wonder, forming a canopy that only allowed the right amount of sunlight reflect on the surface of the water. “We believe that these waters possess healing powers”, he said, “the spirits of peace reside in these caves”. I hadn’t noticed the caves to my left. They were massive and spanned 5 kilometres, with countless compartments, majestic enough to house mystical creatures. I couldn’t go beyond the first half kilometre, I don’t believe in spirits, but I wasn’t taking any chances. “I stayed back because she needed to be looked after, besides this is my home and I hope that one day you find a home here too”, he said to me as he guided me to the source of the waters. I had been silent since we got here, emotions warred within me, how could a place I hated so much bear such beauty. The rustling of the dry leaves beneath our feet and the musty smell of the wet harmattan dust rekindled fond childhood memories, December 2008 precisely, the last time dad, mum, Akanweze and I were a household. The source was a multitude of springs that united magically to birth the waters that became ogbagada. At this elevation, a few meters above, the waters were clear enough to see right to the riverbed. “This was our saviour during the civil war”, he said, “obinofia, the caves, sheltered our men and the waters drowned any soldiers who dared. He tried to guide me by the hand as we came down, but I resisted, slipped on a small rock overgrown with moss and bruised my ankle. Swimming school-aged-boys saw this and beckoned on me to jump in, I obliged as if under the influence and once in, I knew I had made the connection I needed. Healing waters indeed, my bruise didn’t heal magically, neither was the sting of water on a bruise masked, but at that point, I felt all the negative emotions leave me, flow with the angry current of the water down the waterfalls until they hit the rocks beneath and dissipated into an atmosphere of tranquillity. The sunbirds chirped even louder, as if to tell me “welcome home”.