Tradition
‘Omenana’, also written ‘omenani’ or ‘omenala’, refers to the culture of a people, in this case the Igbo of Nigeria. For many authors, ‘omenana’ is synonymous with ‘odinana’ (sometimes spelled ‘odinala’ or ‘odinani’), which means ‘as it is in the land’, i.e. the ‘tradition’ or ‘custom of a people’.
Yesterday I thought of my childhood. Maybe more than I should have but, I could only think of my mother. First, it was how she’d make us sit around her while she told us stories; sometimes about life, the animal kingdom, family, marriage, and even career. My favorite of these stories was her love story. How she met my father.
“He was friends with my older brother,” she’d start, smiling shyly as she caught our eyes to ensure we were all paying rapt attention to her.
“One day, I went to visit my brother, Dominic, in school. I cooked his favorite dish that morning and rushed out of the house. Your aunty Jane was a bit lazy, so she rarely ran this kind of errands. Chinaza sit here,” she’d command after, and quite often as my little sister would usually try to squeeze herself into the circle we’ve created.
“Bring the candle, lit it in the middle,” she’d add.
“Ehe, so when I arrived at his school, I went straight to his dorm and there I met your father, he was sharing a bunk with him and was very rude I must add.” She’d be chuckling now, all the while checking the sitting room to ensure my dad was still fast asleep on the couch.
“I hated him at first, then we became friends, and subsequently, we fell in love.” Did you fall in love? Just like that? I always wondered. My mother made love look simple. She taught us the ups and downs of love, the sacrifices, the passion, and the patience engrossed in the journey of love. She’d often narrate how my dad had so little and because of her father’s influence and wealth, she was considered crazy to choose him.
Much so, she’d add how he did his best to win her heart. She wasn’t easy to get. Sometimes, I wonder if I learned anything at all from any of my mum’s stories. I know the tortoise was cunning, and I need to work hard to earn my keep. I should be respectful, and carry myself with a certain value and esteem, yet, when it comes to love, it feels like I’ve failed tremendously.
The first time I had my heart broken, I thought of my mother and her love story. Was it that easy? Am I her daughter? I had questioned. But today, when I think of my mum, I see nothing aside from what we could have had.
You must wonder why this is titled tradition. Well, I’ll tell you. For the first time in my life, I experienced what tradition could do to a person — especially a foreigner. You know, every time my mum spoke of tradition; the Umu Adas, and other aspects of my village I had little to no knowledge about, I and my five siblings would cackle, chuckling and eventually laughing loud at how ridiculous her stories were. But, when I stood at the entrance of my father’s house in the village just a few weeks ago, I wanted to scream my lungs out, find my mum, and tell her how right she’d been. But I couldn’t, it was too late.
Let me tell you a little about my tradition. I come from a tribe in Nigeria known as Igbo. Specifically, I am from the ISU local government in Imo State. My village is called Amandugba. Don’t worry, sometimes I struggle to pronounce it as well. To get to my father’s house from Owerri town, which was my route to take on that day, you’d first take a bus or drive over to a place called Umuaka.
I had taken a bus after a few drops from my actual residence in school. That evening, as I sat in the bus, I felt fear for the first time in a long time. I was afraid of what awaited me. My reason for visiting had been eating me from inside for days and now, I had eventually taken a step to visit.
The conductor(a man who waves passengers in and out of the bus) asked me where I would drop but I had no idea. Although my elder sister had sent a proper description of the route I was to take, I wanted to run away. To turn back and insist I wasn’t coming, that I couldn’t. I was scared. But as the sky darkened and the soft evening breeze slapped against my skin, I finally spoke.
“Umuaka please,” I said, ruffling a sum of 700 naira into his hands, which was more than my sister claimed she had paid. By the time we arrived in Umuaka, the earth seemed to have worn its shadow, leaving my eyes at the mercy of motorcycles and their invasive lights. I quickly grabbed my bag, threw it on my back, and hopped out of the bus. A bike rider quickly approached me and that was when my journey started.
After paying an additional sum of 1000 naira, this bike man drove me past civilization into the depths of my village. We passed trees, grasses, and buildings. With eyes fixed on the road, I paid no attention to the kiosk and shops we passed. My mind had travelled back to days when my mum nursed me while I shivered sick on my bed from malaria. I also thought of how she’d always buy snacks after a long market day, sharing them just as she told stories of her days' experience.
Finally, we got to my house and right outside held the very thing I had tried all week to forget.
Sorry, this doesn’t justify the title I know. So let me start by saying that my tribe has one of the worst types of traditions ever. While I can’t speak for all the villages in Imo state nor all the traditions, mine proved to me that we were nothing but mirrored images of humanity. Don’t get me wrong, there are things about my tribe I love, especially when it comes to culture. But, I can’t help but wonder why some traditions can’t and won’t be scraped out to better enhance humanity and possibly promote empathy.
For example, in my village, these Umu Adas are entitled to a high chunk of entertainment during any loud occasion, be it a wedding ceremony or a burial. And most times, people hate to go by the rules. Unfortunately, when you don’t, you will be alienated. You’d attend your occasion alone, and bear a stigma of dissociation that creates an invisible boundary between you and the rest of the world. My mum hated their guts, and even though she didn’t support everything they blabber about, she was part of them and that had made it even worse.
My first encounter with this tradition after my arrival in the village was when we were told to come out and entertain the Umu Adas, who, and I kid you not, had been sitting without helping since their arrival a day before the occasion. An occasion my mum would have hated to attend herself, yet I was there with my siblings, a wrapper tied around me and my sister’s waists while my brother was nowhere to be found. Off to scanvenging, I guess, like he occasionally did.
We scrambled our way to their canopy and bent to give our greetings. I could smell their hatred. It was evident in the twist and turns of the wrinkles on their faces and the way their lips slightly parted in fake smiles. I just knew we had some things in common; we all disliked ourselves. Theirs being a dislike fumed from the sudden invite from kids who barely visited the village, while ours was their entitlement, the audacity to demand from the victims. Yet, we had to feign a smile and welcome these women, who knew nothing about us and definitely did not like us.
My second encounter was when it was time for refreshment. Their demands were ridiculous; tea and bread, rice, beef, soup, yam, garden eggs, etc. These old women ate more than anyone in the occasion and I was in shock. Not because they ate, but because with every tray that left their canopy, they had more demands, grumbling in dissatisfaction.
This was bearable until my third encounter with tradition; when my siblings and I were harshly thrown in front of the crowd or guests, and were commanded to pay respect to our mother by crying. I didn’t understand what they meant. My mum was only away, and it was silly to make us cry in front of strangers to pay our respects. It was no news we loved her. Yet I couldn’t voice these thoughts as we stood there embarrassed in front of everyone while forcing ourselves to cry. I was going to tease my sisters about how ugly they looked but I knew I looked terrible as well.
As I sat in front of that crowd, I felt rage surge through me. The scorching sun and stares from people who knew nothing about us enraged me further so I yelled.
“Ime `be akwa! I will cry my eyes out and you’ll all be satisfied,” I blurted. Now saddened by the loneliness that suddenly engulfed me. Maybe because I barely knew anyone in the congregation, or was it the absence of my mum? Knowing fully well if she was present, no one would dare speak to us in such a manner, nor turn us to sitting ducks waiting to be slaughtered.
I anticipated her arrival. I knew she was coming soon, and I couldn’t wait. I wanted her to accompany me to a woman I had decided to scold after the occasion and would ask to repeat the silly statement she had made earlier. She would say again, that we were foreigners and because we were graduates doesn’t make us literate or members of the village. I was going to make sure she chewed her words back, but I needed my mother for that to be possible. So, I waited.
My fourth and last encounter with tradition, was when my mum arrived. I was going to run out to embrace her, have her hold me, and kiss me while she tells me all she had encountered on her way here. If the road was bad, and if her bike man had to slow down like mine did. If she recognized the village market, or did it look different like I had thought it was? Most especially, I was going to point out the silly woman who wouldn’t keep her mouth shut, but when I saw her, my mother, I was frozen in place.
The signpost at the entrance of my father’s house now made sense. My mum was frowning, her smile evaded while her skin looked as dark as tar. Her face was shrunk. I had tried to touch her, to shake her awake and demand she continue telling her stories, and that this time, I wouldn’t try to imitate her love story but would simply enjoy her story. But she was tired. Her eyes were shut, circled, and drained of life. Yet, again, tradition had prevented me from attaching myself to her.
“Tah! Don’t touch her,” my uncle yelled. It’s a bad omen. So I stayed put. After a few hours, when they dug the orange soil and buried my childhood in it, I saw the woman leave, her huge buttocks swaying proudly as though she had won. Even though I knew she had. I quickly turned to stare at my mother’s new house; white and boring, lacking her favorite makeup, chair, accessories, or song.
“We’ve lost a fight,” I whispered. But what was I expecting? The dead can’t do things, no matter how much we want them to. If this is true, why does her favorite song still serve as a painful reminder of all the time she had asked me to dance with her and I had shook my head, wondering why a 56-year-old woman would still act like a child.
Yet today I wish she was just that, a child, that way maybe time would stop and we’d sway all we want. That somehow, I would love my mother in the different ways I had always wanted to, knowing that tradition does not define us.
