OKPA-DI-OKU

Saturday mornings in omagba were always characterized with incessant ringing of bells by little children who beckon other sleeping children for their morning mass. They ring the bell rhythmically so it could blend into everyone’s name. They stumped their foots to the beat of the bell and clapped amidst careless cum vibrant chants. This group of miniature fanatics never passed our yard without hollering the names of the catholic children who lived in our compound. They go- ‘chibueze! Bianu morni mass, okenna! bianu morni mass, afoma! bianu morni mass, uche! bianu morni mass. –chibueze! Come for morning mass, Okenna ! Come for morning mass, Afoma! Come for morning mass, Uche! Come for morning mass”. As they pass other yards, they called the names of the kids who lived there. I always wondered how they knew the names of every catholic child around. It remained a mystery.

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As non-Catholics, when this is going on outside, I know father and mother would come to wake I and my siblings. I change my sleeping position- I face the wall with my hands clasped together and artistically tucked in-between my laps. Next thing, father and mothers room door makes an unbolting sound; father comes out before mother. First, staggers consciously to the rest room and empties his bladder. I listen carefully to know when that sound that comes from peeing directly into the toilet water dwindles and ends with lousy sprinkles. Mother walks out and performs the ‘bladder emptying’ ritual too. When mother wakes, whether you like it or not, sleep is over for you.

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She tip-toes into our room, point her torch light on our bodies looking for mosquitoes to murder. Her next line of action is to hit her hand on the edge of our bed and says ‘the psalmist says; early morning will I rise and praise you’. When she spews this family cliché, she hovers around to monitor our responses. I wouldn’t wake until she cups her palm and packs water she would sprinkle on my face. I throw punches to the air and it makes cracking sounds, I bend my waist to the left and to the right.  After that, I brush my teeth and we head to the sitting room for our morning devotion. It was fun when daddy preached. He always stressed on how we will become suya in hell fire if we don’t stop all the bad bad things we did. We didn’t like mothers preaching at all! She had this skill of putting you in hell fire already with her thunderous voice while she condemned our laziness and our failure to read our queen primer. So, father was the better option. The part of the morning altar I enjoyed most was the prayer sessions. Father’s prayers were always long. While he prayed, we could go extra two rounds of sleep with pretentious scanty responses to make him feel we were in the spirit too. He made sure he bound all the demons he knew their names, he prayed even harder. We slept even harder too. I can’t forget the day I dozed off when the prayers began and woke up when they had already finished the house chores. My brothers told me that I didn’t stop saying ‘amen’ after every 2 to 3 minutes. After I woke up, mother cornered me into her bedroom and said “ junior, imaro ife. Junior you don’t have sense”. I am the first son and anything I do wrong made my mother feel she had lost her entire children.

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Saturdays remained a nightmare to a lazy bone like me. I hated chores especially washing the toilet. Anytime I washed the toilet, I felt used. I will use fork in eating my garri for the whole of the oncoming week if I washed toilet. I sniff the scent of my palm continuously until the thought of my hand being synonymous to that of a leper evaporates. While we worked, we talked of the meanness of our teachers. I remember how we always argued that any aunty that has beards knows how to flog well well. We made reference to aunty ‘ten ten’. We called her aunty ten ten because she wouldn’t give anyone strokes less than ten. She had beards. She was that wicked. When mother feels we talked more than we worked, she yells and flings tantrums at us. She will say “bia umuazia, nwete unu ebe ahu, ihe nga apia unu g’adi unu egwu. Hey you children, if I meet you people there, the way I will flog you will baffle you”. We laugh and buckle up contemplating on what our breakfast will be.

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Before its 10.00 am, mama ifeanyi, that round woman that was as round as DMGS round about walks into our compound with her tray laden with hot okpa and her walky talky bag that she uses in putting her money and her santana nylon which she also used in tying the okpa. She bellows ‘Okpa di oku. Hot okpa’ she continues “kedu ndi choro okpa na yadia? Who wants okpa in this yard?” We look at ourselves, sigh in relief, and gulp a reasonable amount of saliva while we wait for mother to decide if we will have okpa as our ‘morning food’. We only called tea and bread ‘breakfast’ any other thing apart from tea and bread was ‘morning food’. When mother does the needful and sends one of us to buy it, I always struggled to cut it. I loved cutting okpa: the way the knife sinks into the whole in a blissful division, the way mouth watering aromatic vapor escaped from the divided part and vanished. I loved nibbling the edges while I blew air on it to make it less hot. I loved the way I close my eyes while the okpa squishes between my teeth and hurries down my throat. Mother shouts from her room ‘junior!’ I answer with a loud hum as a result of my mouth being too busy. She continues “make sure you wash that knife you used in cutting that okpa. While washing it, please be careful maka aka gi(because of your hand)” I smile with okpa-di-oku in my mouth and nod.

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Mr banks!