THE LITERACY OF BELIEF. Uju C. Ukwuoma

       CHAPTER 4

       The Dynamics of Belief

       What we say and do in the absence of insanity when we are not acting or pretending, depicts our belief systems.

       “Why me, uncle?” I asked. He ignored my question and sent for uncles Julius and Ephraim. My uncles gave conflicting accounts of my relationship to the deity. I sensed confusion. However, all of my uncles agreed that a spiritual intervention was required to mollify Ikenga, the source of my strength. I deduced from their conversation that the idol was the channel for reaching what was responsible for my predicament, for lack of a better word. My friend’s father was right. So, they sent for a native doctor. Many believe that native doctors have powers to control spirits. No one bothered to inform my father. He would learn about the development when he returned from his expedition to the city to teach college students.

       My uncles are my fathers, and they have my best interest at heart, I mused. To them, it took more than a biological father to raise a child. Upon arrival, the native doctor threw some cowries to the ground several times. He picked the cowries, shook them in his hand, and threw them back on the floor. It appeared he had nothing else to do than pretend he was rolling dice. His routine consisted of picking the cowries, shaking them in his hand with a closed palm, and throwing them to the ground. When the cowries were on the floor, he looked at them as if he expected them to talk. He uttered something similar to uncle Bryan’s poetic recitals. He sounded different, though. Because I was taking the Igbo language and Igbo literature as subjects at school, it was easy to understand his proverbs. He said things like: “Sudden occurrences defeat a brave man, but you also know a brave man when unforeseen circumstances happen.”

       He also pointed out, like uncle Bryan, that the ground was the same all over the world because it had sand, and everybody marched on the sand. Finally, he suggested to my uncles what they should buy, as if he were a medical practitioner prescribing medication. Two goats, two roosters, kola nuts, alcoholic drinks, some leaves, the outermost layers of shrubs, and parts of some trees. The shrubs and tree parts were from trees our people considered sacred. The list also included a four-faced wooden image of the idol. The native doctor insisted that my spiritual work required a four-faced image of the deity because I was a powerful native doctor. Having said that twice, I looked at him, puzzled at the notion of being a native doctor without my knowledge. He looked at me like a crook and quietly uttered, “In your previous life, my son.” As such, more items were needed to appease the gods on my behalf. Appearing serious and with a disconcerting smirk, he told my uncles some of the things I did in my past life with the shaky hand.

       “If he craved coconuts, all he had to do was point his trembling hand in the direction of the exact coconut he desired. Whichever coconut he pointed at fell to the ground.” He sounded stranger than fiction to me. For once, something in me wanted to punch his face, but the idea of killing someone and going to prison prevented me.

       Nevertheless, my uncles gave him some money, and he left. He returned after about two hours with the items on his list. In my presence, the native doctor killed the goats and roosters. He sprinkled their blood on the ground. Also, he made a little hole in the ground and put two small tree branches inside. Afterward, he recited narrative-like incantations inviting various gods to commence the process of eating food.

       “Amadioha, the famed Igbo god of thunder, it is time for you to consume a goat. Come and eat fowl, come, and drink alcoholic drinks. Ala, the ground upon which we stand, have some drinks,” he chanted. He poured more alcoholic beverages on the ground. After a series of chants and cleaning the blood of the goat and cocks on my left hand, he asked the deity to be my guide. He hit my chest with one cock and slammed an entire goat on my body in an offensive manner. Again, I felt like punching and pushing him to the ground. Finally, he added the statue of the deity to the dirty spot in the middle of our family premises. He instructed my uncles to grant the idol food, drinks, and the blood of animals periodically.

       Furthermore, he directed them to kill goats, roosters, or cows for the deity during critical events in my life. I went back to school a day after the ritual and continued with my usual activities. Surprisingly, I felt more energetic and confident without any urge to fight. My hand did not shake again till the end of my final year of junior secondary school and for the entire three years of senior secondary.

       Being belief literate has taught me that idolatry and the belief systems of uncle Bryan worked for me, not because of their effectiveness, but because of my belief. I believed they would work and they worked. However, in the first year of my senior years, I failed our third term examination. The third term examination determined who would repeat a class or advance to a new level. It was the yearly promotion exam. Our school had a ridiculous policy of announcing the three best and three worst students academically on the final day of school in the school hall. So, it was on that day I heard my name among the worst three students of the year. The worst three are also known as those who carry the school on their heads. The news came to me as a shock, but Paul, another of my classmates, worsened everything. He walked up to me as we left the hall and asked, “Do you know that killing a king is better than embarrassing him?” I did not answer his question, so he laughed and asked me if the class was weighty on my head. At that moment, I wished that the ground would open and swallow me so the students would have something else to discuss.

       For the first time in my life, I was afraid to return home for the holidays. So, I decided to die. On my way home, I stopped at a pharmacy and bought 30 tablets of a sleeping pill. We called such stores chemist shops. A doctor’s prescription was not required to purchase medications. Any medicine you could pay for was yours for the asking. Forty-five minutes before I got home, I took 10 of those pills. Before I reached our family compound, I began to stagger. I made it to our parlor and into the welcoming arms of my mom before drifting into a heavy slumber. Two days later I awoke, only to see our house crowded with people who wanted to know my whereabouts and what I had consumed. I could not comprehend why nearly every member of our community was congregated in my name. Some suggested that my parents rush me to a hospital. Others questioned the rationale: “He is awake. Why does he need a doctor? He probably overslept.”