Bright morning owl

“Hunger mocks my spirit,” Ujunwa said, pushing open the door of their almost empty refrigerator. “We need to eat out this evening or are you just going to sit there?” 

“Where is your heart?” Came the feeble reply.

“Right here,” Ujunwa responded with a mischievous grin, frantically palming her belly. She hoped to breathe some life into the once lively apartment which had gone dull and quiet in the past week. Nothing seemed to work so far. Not even the short walk to Lukas Grill, Brittany’s favourite restaurant.

Ujunwa understood Brittany’s pain but she felt slighted that all her efforts at consolation in the past week had been rebuffed. Brittany remained sullen, a permanent frown etched on her face. Ujunwa considered letting her be. Perhaps it was best to give her some space to heal—give her time to brood. They would walk have to walk down to Lukas’ Grill in silence, eat in silence, walk back home in silence, and sleep in silence.  But was it worth it? What was the point in continuing in this misery? When would it end?

Reluctantly, she decided to break the ice.

“Ok. Do you think you could loosen up a bit? You don’t want everyone at Lukas staring at you and wondering what the hell is wrong,” she said rather hopefully.

Brittany turned to look at her with those large blue eyes that reminded her of their first meeting. It was the same look, the same eyes, but without the eager, welcoming smile—the smile that had drawn her, five years ago, to this American girl, two years younger. She was to go on to become more than a friend and flatmate, but also a sister. Their relationship was, however, not devoid of the occasional skirmishes. What is beauty without some imperfection anyway?

“What is beauty without some imperfection?”

Their bond had grown steadily with each passing year. So close were they that by second year they had earned the title ‘combo-girls’. How that name came about Ujunwa could not tell. But she was not surprised at the pace of their friendship. Right from their first encounter, Ujunwa had a strong feeling that they would become best of friends. This was despite her initial wariness and uncertainty about getting close to someone from a different background.

It wasn’t that she was totally oblivious of how American girls lived. Of course not. Growing up in Nigeria with American films and stories meant that she had a reasonably good idea. There were days when trapped in one of those horrible traffic gridlocks from Okokomaiko to Surulere she would buy local lifestyle magazines from the frustrated and sun-parched roadside vendor who bellowed magical sale pitches:

“Get this cheap magazine wey go give you sharp tips on how to live long like oyinbo person…this one go show you wetin you go dey chop to look young as you dey live long. This other one go show you the latest international fashion and this one no be for local champions o, this one na American levels o!”

In those days, whenever she opened such magazines hoping to see something she could relate to, she often ended up getting lost like a stranded chick that strayed into a fox’s lair. The pages were always flooded with images of lean American and European girls in swimsuits, fur coats and monochrome glasses, lying in beach sands or striking otherwise unnatural poses. When she finally won a scholarship to study in the US, it felt almost surreal because she was finally going to see and live amongst those seemingly sublime beings on the cover of magazines. She was not even sure that she was ready for it.

Her family did not help ease the uncertainty. The general family prayer and blessings invoked on her before she travelled were like canonical declaration sessions. Like many Nigerians their age, her parents were yet to come to terms with what they saw as unbridled sexual freedoms that characterised modern American society. They were concerned that their daughter would become influenced and deviate from the moral principles she had been taught.

“We cover you with the blood of Jesus!”

“Blood of Jesus!” came the chorus.

 “We cover the air you breathe with the blood of Jesus!”

“Blood of Jesus!”

“No weapons fashioned against you shall prosper! The enemy will not see you! We rebuke any evil friend, any agent of darkness the devil will send your path…”

On and on it went.

After the prayers or ‘special anointing session’ as her mother had tagged it, her grandfather still summoned her to the village making sure to pour a special libation on her behalf.  After his prayers, he had some words of advice for Ujunwa. His words were lucid and concise, interspersed as always, with indigenous proverbs.

“Maybe by the time you will be bringing home a man for marriage, I may have journeyed on to the great beyond, to be with my ancestors and the ancestors before them. Things have changed now. In my days, you would already have been overdue for marriage.” He paused to drink the last dregs of the libation left in a small ceramic cup. He pouted as the fiery drink scorched down his throat.

“The world has changed and things are now different. We now look up to you the young generation. Our people say that when the old get blind it is the young that will eventually lead them.” He stopped again to pour himself a shot from the bottle of gin that had been lying on his laps.  

“Our people also say that a traveller is more knowledgeable than a person with grey hair.” He paused to pour the shot down his throat, his face contorting into a grimace.

“But you see Uju, it is the same people that say that what an old man sees sitting on his flat stool, a child cannot see even if it climbs a palm tree”. He peered into her face as if searching for agreement.

Ujunwa nodded profusely.

“As you are going to Obodo Oyibo, always remember where you came from. Don’t do anything that will bring shame to your family. Whenever you decide to marry, Ujunwa, bring us back a son of the soil”

Ujunwa wasn’t sure what to make of his words. She just kept on nodding.

Lukas Grill was half-full when they got there and Brittany decided she would rather take the food home. After a twenty-minute wait for the food to be prepared, the duo began the fifteen-minute walk back home. Ujunwa was not going to let the sullen evening continue.

“Ok, it’s time to cheer up now, you cannot carry on being a butt of misery forever”.

“Well, if you are really wanting to cheer me up, then you’re doing a really bad job of it.”

“Oh really? I’ve tried to lighten the mood all day, just got you dinner from your favourite eat out, and I’m doing a bad job. For real?”

“I just need you to be more understanding.” The tiny rose petals were beginning to sprout on Brittany’s cheeks.

“Understand what? That you are going to mourn and starve for weeks just because some undeserving boy cheated on you?”

Their rising voices punctured the quiet night as they walked in silence, their steps thudding rhythmically on the pavement.

“You can be really hard-hearted at times, you know,” Brittany said after some time. “Sometimes I wish I were as strong as you”.

“And who says I’m strong?”

Photo: Jakob Owens

“You are, Juju. Sometimes I wish you really had the power of your name so that you could transfer some of that strength to me.”

Brittany hadn’t stopped calling her Juju since she heard Ujunwa’s mum use the same word over a Skype call. Ujunwa had explained that it was her pet name taken from the second syllable of her name. Everyone called her Juju at home. She had gone on to explain how some friends would in jest, twist the pronunciation to rhyme with juju, the common word for voodoo. Brittany always found a way to joke about it by referring to Ujunwa’s mystical powers.

“Careful what you wish for. If I had juju powers, I would have turned you into a dragonfly long ago!”

They both laughed, the evening breeze carrying their laughter through the serene streets.

“You owe me a story,” Brittany said. “Now would be a really good time.”

The two had developed a practice of telling the other a story. It had started when Brittany, one day after anthropology class, entreated Ujunwa to tell her “a traditional African story”. Ujunwa agreed on the ground that Brittany reciprocate with a traditional American story, and the two struck a deal.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear your beautiful stories,” said Brittany brimming with excitement

“And why do you think I have beautiful stories to tell?”

“They say Africa is full of stories”

“That may be true but Africa is a vast continent you know. And, I’m not exactly the best storyteller. But I’ll certainly do my best.”

Ujunwa struggled to remember any traditional stories as she hadn’t grown up listening to them. Her parents were strict Pentecostals who did not entertain even the slightest hint of ‘paganism’ whether in songs, dance, or folklore. “Tributes to dead gods,” her mother would chime.

“They say Africa is full of stories.”

However, Ujunwa had a story for tonight. She had heard it as a child while on Christmas vacation at the village. She had gone out with other kids to play hide and seek in the nearby bushes and was carefully hidden behind some shrubs when a young boy with a red catapult joined her. Whether or not he was part of the group Ujunwa could not tell. It was there, sat together behind the shrubs, that he told her the story.

Ujunwa cleared her throat as she began the narration.

A long time ago, there was a kingdom of mother owls nested atop a very huge Iroko standing close to a lake of alligators. They slept during the day and hunted at night leaving the owlets behind. There was, however, one mother owl that defied this arrangement. Whenever older owls went out to hunt, she would sneak back and steal their babies to feed hers.

For a long time, the other owls wondered who was behind the death of their babies until one owl caught the evil mother owl in the act of stealing her owlets. The bad owl was reported to the council, tried, and found guilty.  Her first punishment was the seizure of her owlets as ‘property’ of the kingdom given that they were nourished with the flesh of other kindred. The bad owl was never to see them again as she was banished to a lower part of the tree.

After her banishment, the bad owl sought ways to find out about the wellbeing of her babies. She would hoot ceaselessly at night hoping they would hoot back at her, but no sound came back. Whenever she saw feathers falling down, she would panic in the thought that they could be those of her babies scattered by the wind as they were being devoured.

As she grew old and sick at heart, the banished owl’s voice got fainter and fainter. One day, she gave up and decided to dive into the alligator-infested lake. She was torn into shreds by hungry alligators even before she hit the water. In the afterlife, the owl’s spirit discovered that the very feathers which aroused panic in her were those of the owlets she had murdered. In timeless agony, her spirit never ceased to hoot and can be heard to this day. The end.

Ujunwa was smiling as she searched her friend’s face for a reaction.

“That was…but wait does it really end there?” asked an animated Britany. “I would’ve wanted to know what happened to her babies!”

Photo: Doug Swinson

“Well, I don’t know. I think the idea of the story is to explain why owls hoot all the time”.

By now they had reached home and Britany, who appeared all enchanted by the story, was back to her normal bubbly self. She quickly devoured her food and the two laughed and giggled long into the night.

They slept together that night on Brittany’s tiny bed. Ujunwa’s sleep was punctuated by strange lucid dreams. First, she saw her grandfather talking to her about keeping customs. And then he morphed into an incubus pressing down on her chest and trying to rip her clothes. She woke up in a slight panic only to find Brittany curled up like a foetus, her head resting firmly on her bosom, her face gentle and peaceful in sleep. Ujunwa looked at her with a tired smile. Knowing Brittany, she was probably dreaming about owls now. Ujunwa kept her gaze for a while and then quietly slid out of the bed, covered Brittany with a duvet, and headed to her room. In her room, she continued staring at the ceiling until her eyes became weary and finally closed. There were no dreams this time, no nightmares. It wasn’t until dawn that she was woken by Brittany’s excited screams and bangs on her door.

“Juju! Juju!”

“What is it,” came the sleepy response.

 “Do you remember that mother owl in the story?”

“Uhmm… yeah?”

“So, I was just going to do my running and guess what I saw perched on a tree outside the window?

“What?”

“An owl! A great grey owl, Juju. The damn owl is real!”

About the Author

Ugochukwu Nwafor is a Nigerian attorney and writer. His works have appeared in national and international anthologies of short story and poetry such as, Active Muse, CFW Freedom Magazine, Fox Spirit Book UK, Lunaris Review, Wreaths for a Wayfarer, and Enkare Review. Ugochukwu’s poem ‘Home-bound Dancers’ was the second runner-up in the June 2019 Collins Elesiro Prize for Literature while his short story ‘The Night She Saw the Sun’ was long-listed for the same prize. He has completed a short-story collection, and is working on his debut novel, and some essays on Igbo cosmology. He shares his time between the US and Nigeria, enjoys travelling, and is passionate about eco-preservation and cross-cultural heritage