MY NYSC IN HADEJIA, JIGAWA STATE (5th November, 2013 to 16th October, 2014).

When I received the first phone call from Bona, it was around 9:30am on Friday. I was at Chinedu's lodge at Abakpa, Enugu. But, before his call came, I had already scheduled to move down to ESUT, Agbani that same day, to confirm whether the NYSC posting letters had been received by my school, to check my posting status on the wall of that uncompleted building, and to collect my deployment letter. We had, for long, been frantically waiting to know the states we were deployed to, and to receive the deployment letters.
"What's up, Carlito? Where are you now? Have you heard the posting lists are out? I just boarded a bus now. I am heading for Agbani. I can't wait to see the state I am deployed to. You know nah; I paid for Akwa-Ibom. Guy, I can't wait to be there," Bona, a course mate and good friend, told me, his voice very excited. The manner and tone with which he spoke clearly revealed his anxiousness to know his posting status.

"Yes, Bona. I am fine. I am in Enugu now. Please, help me check mine. I will be joining you there very soon," I responded to Bona, quickly washing some clothes I had soaked in a bucket of water. I wished I could fly down to Agbani immediately, to join Bona.

The second time my phone beeped, I was carrying a bucket filled with water to the bathroom to bathe myself. This time, the caller's voice sounded very dejected, as if he lost someone dearly. The dejectedness in his tone was so conspicuous that it was easily detected. Bona did not see what he had been expecting. He did not get what he paid his money for.
"Carlito, these people have killed me. I can't believe what I am seeing here o. Could this be a mirage or something of that sort? Imagine! Upon all the money I spent to be posted to Akwa-Ibom, this still happened. Niger state? No, I don't think I can go there. I can't go to a northern state. They even posted Charles to Zamfara state. Yours is JG. Iyke's own is Akwa-Ibom, a state we both paid to be deployed to," Bona told me, his voice inaudible, as if he was very tired, as if he had not eaten for two days.

"Please, Bona, did you say mine is 'JG'? What does JG mean? I mean, which state does it stand for? Is the state in the nor...," Bona hung the phone on me, ignoring my questions and not allowing me to finish. The reason for his reaction, I reasoned, was as a result of his dejectedness.
I quickly bathed myself and rushed down to ESUT, Agbani to see things myself. Although I did not pay money to anybody to be deployed to a state of my choice, I hoped my posting would never exceed the south-south states.

At that uncompleted building that stands motionlessly opposite Faculty of Agriculture (students call it 'the unfinished faculty of Management Sciences, ESUT'), hundreds of the newly deployed corps members filled there, struggling to check their posting statuses. The lists were, department by department, carefully pasted on the wall of that uncompleted building.
I could see two different reactions from those, who had checked and seen the states they were deployed to: happiness and sadness.
Those who were lucky enough to be posted to the states of their choices, or those not posted to a northern states were rejoicing, shouting happily and stylishly shaking hands with friends, especially those friends in the same shoes with them.
I was among the sad ones. It was at the uncompleted building that I learned the meaning of 'JG'. JG means Jigawa state, far north per se. I was mad. For some minutes, I was almost unconscious. I could not move nor speak.
"God, why me? NYSC, why me? I thought you have stopped posting corps members from east to the northern Nigeria. How can I cope in a state, where Boko Haram dominates and terrorizes?" I talked within me, disappointed and unhappy. I was in a dilemma.

At our HOD's office, her secretary, Mrs. Aneke, advised me to withhold the deployment letter, convincing me that north, especially far north like Jigawa, was no longer safe.
Also, I met Dr. Otebulu, one of our lecturers. She, too, was not happy about my posting. She had to do something immediately. By then, my close friend, Charles, who was also posted to Zamfara state, was present. Dr. Otebulu brought out her mobile phone and called one of her relatives, who happens to be an official of NYSC in Abuja, complaining to her about our condition. Later, Dr. Otebulu collected our Call-up Numbers, Full Names, State(s) of Origin, States of Deployment, and the State(s) we wished to be redeployed to, forwarding them to the NYSC official. Charles and I would wish to be redeployed to Delta state. 
"They should not panic. Within four days they report to the Orientation Camps, they will be redeployed. Meanwhile, I will call them and tell them the person to meet at the camps," the NYSC official said audibly, because Dr. Otebulu's phone was put on a speakeout.
Dr. Otebulu advised us to go to any recognised government hospital for a 'medical report'.

Resulting from what I was passing through, I posted something on my Facebook Wall: 'I am very sad and somewhat happy at same time'.
So many people commented, asking me what resulted in that post; and when I told them, they cheered me up. I can never forget one of the comments from Amamchukwu. His wise and courageous words made me strong. His comment made me stand firm like a man with a dogged determination.
A million thanks to all of you, who commented and cheered me up; you changed my world.

The NYSC Orientation Camp, Fanisau, Jigawa State, as far as I know, is the best NYSC Orientation Camp in Nigeria ever. For now, I do not think it has a comparison. It has beautiful, solid and quality structures. It has every modern facility required for camping activities. The environment is decorated with trees and flowers, creating shades for relaxations. In fact, the Camp is a beautiful one.
But, in spite of all these, the first week at the camp was like a hell to me. I had to battle severely before I could adapt. I can never forget my first morning at the camp. It was around 5:20am that early Thursday morning that the trumpet sounded audibly, reverberating, and waking everyone from sleep. Within some minutes, the soldiers mounted at every veranda of the hostels, chivvying us out for morning parade.
"If you're still in your hostel, you're wrong. Fast! Forty seconds remaining! Double up! Double up! Double up! Run! Run! Otondo Corpers!" They chivvied us out for that morning parade. That early morning cold was at its peak. I was shivering uncontrollably, my teeth producing an unstoppable, clicking sound, as if bottles were being gently hit together. I found all these - camping activities - strange, stressful, and abnormal. But as time progressed, I got used to the life in the camp. I found it didactic and fun.

It makes me laugh whenever I remember an incident that took place in our hostel, Block C. In our hostel, we had three hostel leaders, including myself. Our major duty was to make sure the hostel was always in order. We made sure that everywhere (especially the toilets and bathrooms) was tidy. We monitored every strange movement in our hostel. We made sure that issues of theft didn't arise.
Something happened one day: someone messed up the toilet.
Shamsu, a typical Hausa corps member, behaved like a drunkard. Whenever he returned to the hostel every evening, he smelt of cigarette or beer. His beard looked very unkempt, as though unshaved for two years. Shamsu defecated without flushing the excrete. It was smelling so offensively that the odour was oozing from the toilet, making the hostel uninhabitable. Since it was time for evening parade, everyone left the hostel. But, when we all returned in the evening, the three hostel leaders summoned an emergency, hostel meeting, aimed at fishing out the person responsible for the dastardly act. The culprit, Shamsu, was brought out and forced to clean, not only the very toilet he messed up, but all the toilets and bathrooms in the hostel. The first and second time that Shamsu defecated without flushing the excretes, we had advised him to always make sure he flushed or tidied the toilet after use, he seemed to be proving recalcitrant. But hence he was embarrassed, he never did such again. Although he was embarrassed, he learned a lot from that, I am very sure.

While I was leaving Enugu for the Orientation camp, I went along with my fake 'Medical Report' I collected from ESUT Teaching Hospital. "The medical report falsely has it that I am a patient of asthma, that I am supposed to be closer to my Doctor for monthly medical checkups, that the northern weather, especially Jigawa's (which is always filled with dust), will be dangerous to my health." I was medically okay. I never suffered from any sickness of that sort. May God forgive me, for I lied against Him and myself.
I collected the Redeployment Form, filled it, but I did not submit it. I had beginning to consider staying in Jigawa.
By the time Dr. Otegulu and the NYSC official called to tell me what to do, I had already changed my mind. I had accepted to serve in Jigawa. After all, I didn't know how Delta would be.
"Hello, Ma! I thank you very much for showing me love. I really appreciate all your efforts. But Ma, I have  decided to serve here. Sorry for any inconvenience it may cause. I really do appreciate your love," I politely told Dr. Otebulu, feeling very sorry if I had let her down, feeling sorry for rebuffing her offer to help me.

But something made me regret my decision of accepting to stay in Jigawa: a testimony shared by someone in our fellowship.
"Praise thy Lord! I really thank God for my life today. My name is Oche. I hail from Benue state. I am an Ex-corps member, who served in one of the remote villages here in Jigawa state. There is nothing like church in that place. Anyone seen with a Bible will be severely dealt with. If you are the type that raises your voice loudly while saying your prayers, anything can happen to you. As a corps member, especially one who is not a Muslim, if you're caught having an affaire with a Muslim girl, either your hand or your leg will be cut off, and that very girl will be thoroughly beaten - a general beating. If you're the type that can't live without alcohol, you may be stoned to death if you're caught in the act of drinking. For girls: if you're the type that puts on a dress that exposes the sensitive parts of your body, you will be booed and stoned by Almajiris.
Although no case of bomb blast has been recorded here, the state is not safe like you may think.
But I am thanking God for a successful service year here, in spite of all the challenges I faced. Nothing happened to me; I was never a victim of any. Praise thy Lord!" Oche shared his testimony, smiling cheerfully, and heading for his seat.
I looked at him forlornly, agape, and unable to join in singing praises with others. I was totally disappointed by the testimony. Many new corps members, especially those who had made up their minds to serve in Jigawa, were completely disappointed too. I nearly murdered myself emotionally.
"I am such a fool, a big fool. Why did I even refuse to redeploy, even when someone - my lecturer - offered to help me do that? What will I do now?" I had a serious conflict with my thought.

I give a thousand thanks to my platoon officer, a kindhearted, personable man, who saved me from the predicament. He told me all I needed to know about the good people of Jigawa state.
Thank God for a good number of NYSC officials at the camp (all of them being Muslims and indigenes of Jigawa state), who confided in me some facts about Islam and Its teachings.
"...No one will harass or oppress you. Islam is a religion of peace," they clarified me.
Also, I give a special thanks to God for our Reverend Father at the camp, who made me understand that nowhere on earth is safe, that one could only be safe if one embraces Christ, the only Saviour. Thank God for all of these good people I mentioned; they changed my world for good again.
Afterwards, I saw Oche's testimony as a discouragement, as a threat, as that which was too hasty.

The night before we passed out from the camp ever remains fresh in my memory. The kind of love and unity I saw between our Muslim brothers and that of Christians, to me, remains unprecedented. That night, we (our hostel) organised a vigil - a special night of prayer for Muslims and Christians (I call that interreligious fellowship). Shamsu, the one who messed up our toilet, and whose behaviour we conceived as 'unrefined', prayed on behalf of the Muslim brothers. Although the prayer was very brief and sounded very strange to me, I enjoyed it; and I believed it got to God too. It was wonderful.
Jude, one of our hostel leaders, prayed on behalf of the Christians. He prayed heaven down. As he was praying, I could see myself shedding tears of joy, almost unconscious. The prayers were wonderful.
After the prayers that night, I could not sleep. I tried to lull myself to sleep, but sleep evaded me. I tossed excitedly in my hostel bed, wishing to see the daybreak immediately, wishing to pass out from the camp to meet, as I was told, the good people of Jigawa state. I kept breathing heavily, my heart lurching with a great excitement. Finally, a bright, blissful day arrived, a special day.

On that day of passing out, something made me swim in a great ocean of perplexity: the 'mass collapse' of corps members.
Right from the day we reported to the camp, the sun, as usual, had been unbearably scorching, but it caused no harm to anybody. We happily basked in it for three to four hours everyday (except on Sundays), performing camping activities, but no one had ever collapsed. The cold, too, was very unfriendly, especially to us who had not been to that part of the north before, but no one had ever frozen. Also, the harmattan never ceased to show itself, always raising its unfriendly dusty wind, but no one had been severely affected by it.
But, on this passing out day, hence the guest (a representative of Governor Lamido of Jigawa state) arrived, corps members - about seven of them - who were among those selected for the 'passing out parade for our guest', started collapsing simultaneously, as though they planned it, as though the guest came with an anointing. Everyone was greatly astonished.
Although they had been in that unfriendly sun for hours, parading, and waiting for the guest (and may be exhausted too), I did not think that could have resulted in their collapse, because we had always performed activities tougher and longer than that. Nevertheless, no matter what had resulted in that, I thanked God they became okay again.

I would be going to Hadejia.
It was a beautiful, chocolate-complexioned girl, a Yoruba girl, who blocked me and tactfully collected my deployment letter from me, leading me to where NACC (Catholic corps members) family bus, Hadejia, was.
"If you're not going to Hadejia, you're missing a lot. Hadejia, home of kifi. Home of fish. Hadejia! Hadejia! Come this way. You're welcome. You're on the right track. Keep your luggage here!" The already serving Catholic corps members from Hadejia welcomed me, feeling very excited for getting a member, and struggling to get more members.
This day, the camp was very lively and colourful. The representatives of the already serving corps members from different local governments in Jigawa state all mounted everywhere, either wearing their NYSC uniforms or T-shirts printed the names of their denominations. Catholics, the people that welcomed me, were there. Anglicans were there. Pentecostals: Christ Embassy, Redeem, Winners' Chapel, etcetera, were there too. Also, corps members from Muslim brothers filled everywhere. Each group carried and waved its placard(s) boldly written its name, sonorously reciting the name, and struggling to get more members than other groups.
On the other hand, those who redeployed, especially those ones not from the north, were seen carrying their luggage, rushing to Kano in order to report to their states of redeployment.
It was a very memorable day.

It was around 5:30pm that we got to Hadejia. Hadejia was strange and remote to me. The incomparable dryness of the weather, the style of the houses in vogue there, the blackness, slimness, and tallness of the people there all astonished me.
NACC (Catholic corps members), I must always say, gave me a wholehearted welcome. I was marveled by their incomparable love. I enjoyed their well cooked rice, kwunu, and sobo. I ate and drank to my satisfaction. I enjoyed their gists; gists about Hadejia, about the people of Hadejia.

Apart from the wholehearted welcome from NACC, Hadejia mosquitoes gave me a cosy welcome too. I have not seen mosquitoes like Hadejia's. Like a flirting winged termites, they struggled to perch on my head, causing no harm, as if it were their agreement (that is, "do not attack a stranger on his or her first day to our territory"). That night, I slept like a baby; I was not attacked by the mosquitoes.
But from the following day on, they started dealing with me mercilessly.
Even though I always slept in a mosquito net, they still perched on the net, waiting for me to either roll or stretch my body, so that either my hands or legs got to them.

Gandu Sarki Primary and Secondary School, Hadejia, happened to be my PPA (Area of Primary Assignment). The people I found in the school looked very different, very archaic.
The students looked abandonedly unkempt, as if water had not touched their bodies for ages.
On entering the first class to introduce myself, I noticed the students didn't know how to exchange greetings in English. I was intrinsically moved into going round the whole class, teaching them how to officially exchange greetings in English. Thank God I achieved that target.

The first day I went to teach in one of the classes, I almost shed tears resulting from my experience. Few of the students, if at all any, understood me. If you spoke English, you were on your own. "I discovered that one of the major constraints to their effective teaching and learning is inability to communicate in English.
And, I observed that it emanates from their teachers, who barely use English in teaching. None of the teachers, even those ones that teach English, is eloquent in English. Hausa is the only language used for teaching and learning there." Believing I could correct that ( their using only Hausa in teaching), I consulted the school authority, telling 'it' the adverse effects of neglecting English as a language formally chosen for teaching and learning. Also, regarding this issue, I had to meet some teachers individually. But it seemed all my efforts doomed to failure, because the teachers (even the head) seemed to be so much intoxicated with Hausa language that speaking English would be like a hell to them.
Every meeting they held in the school, Hausa was always used as a medium of communication, even when they were fully aware that corps members from other tribes were there with them. "Corper Dika, I will explain to you later. Do not be annoyed. We are used to our language," the Head Teacher would always tell me before their meetings commenced. Sometimes, I would feel discriminated and leave impatiently, or I would forlornly gaze dumbfoundedly at their lips while they talked incomprehensibly.

In my PPA, something I never imagined happened one day: the eerie dramatic episode of that demon-possessed girl.
I was teaching in one of my classes one day; suddenly, a teenage girl fell on the floor, screaming strangely, and rolling helplessly. Her fellow students in the class, especially the females, circled her, shouting excitedly, as though they were not emotionally touched by her condition. I was shocked, speechless. I thought the girl was suffering from epilepsy or perhaps something of that sort. It was when I called the class monitor, who seemed to have a dose of English more than his classmates, that I was told the teenage girl was being tormented by a demon. As I was talking with the monitor, all of a sudden, the poor girl sprang on her feet, ran towards a fellow classmate (a girl), hit her and ran away. Immediately, the girl ran after her. On getting close to her, hit her too, calling her 'a demon-possessed girl'.
Simultaneously, the demon-possessed girl became okay again.
I was marveled, agape. I left the class that day.

The second time I witnessed the episode of a demon possessing a student, it was in the staffroom. That day, the weather was very sunny. I just returned from a class, looking very tired and sleepy. I rested my head on the reading table and slept off. But all of a sudden, there came a sound that sounded as if a big tree just fell. I raised my head. I saw a beautiful, teenage girl, whose name I later learned was Hafsat, stretching, screaming, and rolling helplessly on the floor.
At same time, I saw a teacher, Islamic religious teacher, carrying one sachet of water, and stretching his hand to get a cup placed on the table. He poured the water in the cup, making some mouth-closed but lips-moving prayers into the cup. After that, he poured some water in his mouth, heading for the direction where the poor girl was. From his mouth, he splashed the water on the girl's head in such a way that a quantity dripped into her mouth.
Immediately, the demon started speaking through the girl, begging the teacher not to hurt 'it', that 'it' would never follow her to school again. But the religious teacher shunned 'it', stressing that he had warned 'it' last week not to follow her (the girl) to school again. Later, the religious teacher commanded the demon to flee the girl immediately, and never to follow her to the school premises again. Finally, from his mouth, he splashed another water on the girl (this time, it was all over her body). Within a minute, the poor girl got up, cleaned her dusty body, and headed for her class. Her eyes were as red as blood. I gazed flabbergastedly at her, my mouth widely open.

From that day on, I kept witnessing cases of demons tormenting people in my school almost on daily basis. My fellow corps members serving in other schools in Hadejia were not left out. They kept witnessing same in their schools too. When I asked one of the teachers in my school what resulted in demons possessing those young girls, he said, "The reasons is because they (the girls) do not consistently cover their heads with hijabs. The demons go into them through their uncovered heads. Perhaps they do not wash their bodies supposedly after urinating too". I remained speechless.

Still, there are many good things about my school, about schools in Hadejia:
First, I will talk about the kind of discipline that exists among the students. It reminds me of that type of discipline that existed when schools were being managed by the missionaries.
The way the little Ahmed, a class monitor, punished his classmates still marvels me. Ahmed gave each and everyone of them (even those ones old enough to be his elder brothers) seven strokes of cane. And none of them complained. He punished them, because they were making a noise while I was teaching in their class. I tried controlling them, but I couldn't. Ahmed did it for me. I was amazed.
Second, the kind of discipline and interpersonal relationship that exist among the teachers, and between the teachers and the Head. It's really amazing.
Third, the tenderheartedness of the Head Teacher, principal, is endearing. He is never domineering or officious. He carries everyone along. And, seeing them (the teachers) eat and drink together impressed me greatly. The structures of the buildings there are modern and solid too.

I would have been the happiest man on earth if a seminar we fought for had taken place.
I happened to be the Coordinator (known as Coper in Charge) of my CDS group, Educational Development/ Mass Literacy. I suggested to my CDS that we should organise a seminar aimed at bringing Jigawa Secondary School teachers together, and letting them know the benefits of education, and the using of English in teaching and learning. My CDS loved the idea. We started working towards achieving that rewarding target immediately. We were able to attract many sponsors; and we were on the move to meet our resource persons (lecturers from Jigawa State University), as well as fix a date for the seminar before we became incurably crippled. Unfortunately, the resumption date for schools  in Nigeria was postponed as a result of the sudden outbreak of Ebola Virus. We were handicapped, because our time was limited; we were almost passing out. We couldn't achieve our target as a result of that the outbreak of the Ebola Virus. But God knows we tried our best.

I must not forget some good people of Hadejia, especially Usman and Mummy Hadiza, who made my service year in Hadejia worth remembering.

Usman, a handsome, professional fashion designer, can never escape from my memory. All the traditional wears I bought during my service year in Jigawa, Usman designed them, refusing to collect money from me. What a kind, handsome young man!
There is one thing about Usman's shop: young people always fill there. While they frantically wait for their materials (clothes) to be ready, they are either discussing politics or culture or education or religions, especially those aspects of religious teachings they disapprove of.
One day, one of them, a banker from Dutse, openly voiced some of the teachings of Islam that he disapproves of.
"People, even my fellow Hausas, hardly identify the tribe or religion I belong to. I was almost killed during interreligious crisis, because they thought I was an Igbo man. That is rubbish!
I am in love with an Igbo girl; and I want to marry her. But my parents keep telling me that I will never marry her, that she is an Igbo girl, a Christian. How could a religion intercept someone from marrying whom he or she loves?
One day, I went to the girl's family house in Enugu, to see her. Her parents gave me a wholehearted welcome, showing me an undeserved love, knowing fully well that I am a Muslim. I was shocked.
Seriously, this is a challenge to Muslims," the guy told us, expecting Callistus and I to say something. We didn't say anything; we were afraid.

A young mother away from home, a good neighbour, Mummy Hadiza,  can never be erased from my memory. This beautiful, Hausa woman made sure we were never hungry in our lodge. Every evening, Isahn or Hadiza would carry a food flask or a jug filled with either food or fruit juice.
I enjoyed her shinkafa, tuwo shinkafa, sobo, kunu, kunu jeda, and above all, that juice she prepared using watermelon, pineapples, and bananas. They tasted yummy. I enjoyed them.
I must not forget her daughters: Hadiza, Isahn, and Mama.
Mama almost made me shed tears on that day we were finally leaving Hadejia. Mama, a little girl of two years, on seeing that our vehicle was about leaving for Kano, hugged her mother and started weeping uncontrollably, as thought she knew we would not come to Hadejia again. All of you will ever be there my memory.

So far I draw breath, there are four wonderful people, housemates, that I can't get rid of from my memory: Ojile Abraham, Igwe Ikechukwu, Olekamma Callistus, and Uhuegbu Chigozie Chima.

A kind, peacemaking, and Godfearing guy, Ojile Abraham (also known as AB), my roommate, can never be forgotten.
I remember how he would call us together whenever we had a misunderstanding in the lodge, lavishing us with his personal experiences, and backing them up with words of God. AB, as a roommate to you, I learned so many things from you.
Igwe Ikechukwu, an easygoing, handsome, faire-complexioned boy, remains indelible in my memory. Ik, as we fondly called him, is a peaceful young man.
Olekamma Callistus (we called him Cally), that principled, demure, and 'I don't want any trouble young man' ever remains there in my memory. I learned a lot from you.
Finally, Uhuegbu Chigozie (we called him Chima), CLO with charisma, remains there in my memory. If at all there are 'born leaders', Chima, I am sure is one of them. I will ever remember you, Chima.

I remember how we usually shouted 'akwei wuta or akawo wuta' whenever the PHCN restored its electricity.
I remember how we squabbled over issues, even issues that were irrelevant.
I remember how we cooked our food turn by turn, following our unwritten food time table.
I remember how we bought our water turn by turn too, following the unwritten duties time table.
I remember that Ik's HP Laptop, that PES Football Game. I recall how we would always sit, frantically waiting for our turns whenever there was light, or whenever our Tiger Generator was performing its duty. I did not forget how Chima and I would always object to that idea of buying fuel everyday.
I remember how we usually booed the loser to the extent that he infuriatingly attempted to punch the offenders.
I remember how we would always sit together, analysing cultures, football, education, politics, religions, and the poor states of the country, especially insecurity and unemployment.
I recall how we would always ride on our bicycles on convoy, heading for our destinations.
I can't forget how we would always search for news headlines first thing every morning.
I won't forget how corps members would always assemble  at our Lodge, and always using that kind of indescribable love that existed among us as an example to others.
Remembering all these, I feel good.
I love you all. I wish fate brings us together again.

Also, I won't forget so many other good people, especially my fellow 2013 Batch C corps members, Jigawa state, who, on one way or the other, had positively touched my life. Although I can't mention your names individually here, you are always remembered. I am missing you all.

Hadejia ever remains in my life history.
For a successful service year in it, I say, "Thanks be to God!"
To God be the glory.

THE DILEMMA

Abumchi had been on tenterhooks for over two hours, pacing the floor of Jidofor Hospital, and silently praying to his 'chi' for a safe arrival of the expected new baby.
"Ka nke a dikwara m. Let this one stay for me. Chi m, e kwela k' uwa chia m ochi; my God, don't allow the world laugh at me," Abumchi prayed, his eyes red, his nose running profusely.
With Abumchi at the hospital was Ogadi, the younger sister to Adamma, Abumchi's wife. Ogadi, a local midwife, was born a month after their father's death. Their father, Nwashike, a popular palm wine tapper, accidentally fell from a palm tree and died instantly. His palm wine was the best in the whole community of Nkwele.
At Jidofor Hospital, Ogadi was sitting, bending downwards, praying and shedding tears, as if her eyes had turned to a tap.
"Chi umunwaanyi, bia muoro nwanne m nwaanyi nnwa; God of women, grant that my sister safely delivers of her baby. Even though it's only this one, let it be for her," Ogadi lamented, her cheeks drenched with tears.

Adamma, a vivacious, young woman, was very kindhearted; an even-tempered type. Although she had no surviving child, she was that kind of woman that never joked with little children. Every Sunday afternoon, children in the neighbourhood would always troop in her compound to have a taste of Adamma's rice. Sometimes, she would fry akara for them too.
But in spite of this incomparable love she had for little children, none of her children agreed to stay.
Adamma had given birth to five children, but her 'chi' allowed none of them to stay. Five of them all died immediately they were safely given birth to. Many fortunetellers had claimed that she was an 'Ogbanje', that she would never have a surviving child in her life. Adamma and her husband knew all these were not true.
"If only this one could stay, I shall overcome the blame my elder brother, Ukana, puts on me. I shall have a child, whether a boy or a girl, that will call me father. Ukana had, for long, advised me to marry another wife, but I refused.
If this baby survives, I shall prove those fortunetellers wrong. Adamma, I am very sure, is never an Ogbanje. I shall prove those gossips wrong; those gossips who have been saying all sorts of things about my wife and I. God, I am in your hand," Abumchi bemoaned, still shedding tears.
This time, he sat on a wooden chair at the waiting corner of the hospital, gazing dumbfoundedly.
"Ka uche Chineke mee; let God's will be done," he cheered himself up.

In a one hour interval, Dr. Jidofor came out, smiling conspicuously. Abumchi rushed him and held his shirt.
"What is wrong? Is my child dead? What about my wife? Is she alright?"
"Calm down, young man. Begin to thank your God, because your wife has just safely delivered of a bouncing baby girl," Dr. said.
Tears of joy began to flow down Abumchi's cheeks.
Simultaneously, Ogadi screamed the shout of joy, which traditionally signalled that a surviving, new baby had arrived: Uluu-lu-lui!
There was a great joy in the hospital; everyone there, especially the women, knew what a woman in a long labour went through. "Ugwu nnwa di ebube; Ogoli obi esighi ike agaghi alinwu ya. The mountain of child's delivery is marvelous; a young woman who is not strong and faithful can't climb it," the woman in the hospital recited, dancing rhythmically.

Although Abumchi, on this day, was the happiest person on earth, he had no money to pay for the charges of the Doctor. He was a well known farmer. He was never a lazy type, but the condition of her wife did not allow him meet up for that year's planting season. He had no kobo. Poverty had so much engulfed him that he hardly afforded three square meal daily.
Dr. Jidofor passed the bill of twenty thousand naira (#20, 000) to him, which must be paid before he could take his wife and the new born baby home. His brother, Ukana, who would have helped him, had been on his sick bed for two months. But before his sickness, he had been keeping malice for him; Abumchi had refused to do what he told him to do. He refused to marry another wife. Abumchi had no other source of help. He was stranded. " God, I give you a million thanks for the gift of this new baby, who has come to stay. But I have no money, and I have no one to borrow from. Biko, help me," Abumchi cried out, very stranded.

It was on every last Saturday of the month that a philanthropist, a man of God, Rev. Father Ukpabi, visited hospitals. On this day, he prayed for patients, gave them food or money, or even paid the bills of those patients, whose bills had been passed to them. At Jidofor Hospital, he moved from ward to ward with his prayer warriors, praying, giving gifts and taking care of their bills. Adamma was fortunate enough to meet him; he gave her some food and paid for the hospital bill.
Adamma, as well as the new born baby, was taken home. This was like a miracle to Abumchi. God answered his prayers.
The women married to Abumchi's Kindred escorted the baby and the mother home, screaming joyfully, and singing and walking rhythmically. Some, especially one fair-complexioned woman, Gbataluibe, would scream, run unsteadily and scamper rhythmically, as though she was going gaga.

Abumchi's small compound was filled with people of Umundu village. Neighbours, relatives, and well wishers all trooped in Abumchi's compound to welcome the new born baby. Some came, carrying one or two gallons of palm wine, or with a bottle of Aromatic Schnapps (hot drink), or with other gifts.
The 'nzu', soaked in a small, round mud plate with water was placed on a wooden table that stood on the center of the compound, so that anybody who came would dip a finger in it and draw a straight line on his/her left hand. Some would rub the nzu round their necks or faces. The line drawn on the left hand signified that the new born baby was a girl. Two lines would have been drawn if there were two baby girls. If the line was drawn on the right hand, it signified a male baby. Also, the line would have been drawn two on the right hand, if two males babies were born.
But at Abunchi's compound, left hands were seen with one line drawn on them, because Adamma gave birth to a female child.

The women of Abumchi's kindred (Inyom di) and other women, who joined them, were singing, dancing and rubbing their powder.They were singing and screaming joyfully. This time, it was Gbataluibe who was singing.
"Nurse nye m bed ka m muo nwa, eeeh! Chi na-enye Ugo, onye ilo m gbaputa, o tee powder. Uluu-lu-lui!" They sang and danced and screamed.
Abumchi's umunna (kindred) and others who joined them settled under the 'ube' tree, drinking copiously.
Abumchi could not believe what he was seeing. He was joyfully unconscious, as though everything was happening in a dream, as though it was just a mirage. With a smile and tears of joy on his face, he moved from location to the other, not knowing what he was doing.
"Chi m, ekene m gi; my God I thank you. All the Umundu ancestors, I give you a million thanks," Abumchi happily showed his appreciation to his chi and his ancestors.

Ogadi had been with her sister, Adamma, for one month, taking care of the new born born baby. She had been doing the 'ile omugwo'. Their mother, Nwada, who would have done that, died four years ago when she was returning from her farm at Agbani. It was in the afternoon, when she was returning from her farm that a big, black snake bit her at Amasa-agu (a place where farmers put down their loads to rest). There was no one around to rescue her or rush her to Okorji, a specialist in the treatment of snake bite; she died at the spot. This was a sad news for Adamma and Ogadi. That turned them to orphans.
It was on that Sunday evening that relatives, neighbours, friends and well wishers all thronged at Abumchi's small compound. According to the tradition, a new born child was to be named after 'izu-asaa' (twenty eight days - one month) of the child's delivery. Before that fateful day, Abumchi and his brother, Ukana, who had recovered from his sickness, had already made some arrangement for palm wine - about four jars of palm wine. As soon as Ukana recovered from his sickness, he reconciled with his brother. He was happy for the new born baby too.

Different delicacies of yam were prepared on this very day. There was a particular one called 'ji mmiri oki' (a kind of porridge yam prepared with assorted water, and usually eaten while it was hot).
The ceremony started with Abumchi naming the baby Ogechi (God's time). The tradition demanded that the father of a baby or his representative, usually the eldest man from the kindred, would be the first to name the baby. Others, starting from the mother of the baby, representatives from the mother's maternal home (ndi ikwu nne), members of the kindred and friends or well wishers would proceed form there. Each person who named the baby, or those who supported a name already given would give a gift(s).

Abumchi chose to name his child Ogechi, because he believed it was God's time for him to have a child. He had already given birth to five, but none survived. Those ones did not come at the appointed time of God. Ogadi, too, loved the name. Just like her husband, she believed the child had come to stay, because it was given at the appointed time of God.
So many names were given to the child: Chinaza, Chioma, Ihuoma, Nwoma, and Ogechi.

           ...to be continued.