Over three times in two years, I upgraded the advance I paid my Dad to write his autobiography. Intermittently, he would start and then abandon the project. I listened to his excuses but I didn’t give up on him. I kept the pressure by insisting that, though making appearances at funerals and leading kinship meetings were important, our generations yet unborn would benefit more from his personal account of his life. Rather than threaten to cut off funding, I reminded Dad of that English poet who said that “if you do not want to be forgotten as soon as you die and rot, you either do something worth writing about or you write something worth reading.”

While I was home, I finally saw some sample pages of my Dad’s autobiography. What you are about to read is an extract from one of the chapters.
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I baby-sat three of my junior brothers who later died in infancy. I still remember the death of the last one. Mother went to Afor Nnobi to sell her wares and I was left with the child. I sang lullaby for him and feed him when he was hungry. When the child was asleep, I laid him on the mat. Before long, he started crying and I quickly carried him on my shoulders. I was only eight years old.

Suddenly, the child started wailing unabatedly. He was wailing and kicking. He struggled as if he wanted to be let loose. Several times, both of us almost fell on the ground. I supported myself by the wall while I positioned my two feet solidly on the ground. The duel lasted for several minutes and finally, the child fell asleep.

I laid him on the mat inside mother’s mud house and joyfully joined my playmates outside. We climbed trees, played games like ncholokoto, and took turns to hide and seek. We also visited the anthill and sought the soldier ants. We were doing that when mother came back. Upon seeing her, we sang the song:

Mama anata o-yo-yo Onata ojebekwa, o-yo-yo.

Mother dropped her basket and inquired about the child. I triumphantly told her the child gave me a hard time, that he cried for a while but was now sleeping. I was going through her basket in search of snacks like akara and agidi while mother went to the room to see how the child was doing. Mother tried to raise the child from the mat but suddenly released him. Then, mother started to wail.

I was dumbfounded. There was commotion everywhere. Neighbors started pouring into our compound. The child was dead, I discovered. I did not feel the weight of what had happened until the dead child was laid at the center of our parlor and men and women of our clan gathered in our compound in a mournful mood.
Some men had gone to prepare the grave at the periphery of our compound. Almost immediately, the corpse, rapped in a mat, was brought and buried. The wailing stopped instantly.

The successive nature of the death ignited consultations on the cause. The idea that Chief Priest of Ukpaka Ndam should be consulted reigned supreme. Mother had to sleep outside her room for it was believed that the dead child would come back again. Belief in Ogbanje, spirit child who dies and comes back, dominated discussions. To prevent the return of the dead child, sacrifices were made at the threshold of our house so that the wandering Ogbanje would not return to mother.

Every evening, before night falls, father would carry earthen pot in hand and go round our compound making some incantations and spilling some liquid as he went. He would not respond to anybody greeting him until the ritual was over.

During those occasions, I would recoil to a corner and watch father perform such strange and awful ritual. As soon as he finished the round, he would wash himself from a pot of water especially made for it. It was only when he had washed himself that he would then talk to people. This act continued for seven days consecutively. As soon as the seventh day ritual was over, peace returned to the entire family.

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After reading the story above, many things began to make sense about my family. I am a sickle cell carrier (AS) and I bet Dad is one too. Now, I am waiting for the part of the story where Dad met Mum. I want to see if Dad did a blood test to check whether Mum was sickle cell free (AA) before they got married. Or if it was just luck that made the child in this story our family’s last spirit child.