Ovonramwen Nogbaisi
Photo: Joseph Keyser
Some seventeen or eighteen years ago, soldiers of the British colonial administration invaded our kingdom Benin. They burnt down houses and barns, gunned down our less armed warriors and unarmed mothers and children, looted our age-long artefacts, including thousands of bronze sculptures and wood carvings, dethroned the king, Oba Ovonramwen Nogbaisi, and took him, together with few other natives, including me, Omiriyaan Ighigbose—who, as far as eye can see and tell, was the king’s favourite servant—away from our kingdom to Calabar, where the colonial administration’s headquarters was—and is still—situated.
The other natives who were taken alongside the king were two of his wives, Queens Egbe and Aighobahi, Chief Okavbiogbe, the king’s favourite chief, and Ezomo, unarguably Benin’s fiercest warrior. We sailed through the waters, trekked through pathways surrounded by wild bushes and, by the time we arrived Calabar, some two or three days after we left Benin, Chief Okavbiogbe was no longer with us. He had cursed the white men and their soldiers aboard the boat and dived into the river.
The White Man’s District, as it is called here in Calabar, is a large compound with over fifteen buildings that serve different purposes. There, in a small room in one of those buildings, Ovonramwen, Ezomo and I were accommodated while the two queens were taken to a different building, which seemed to be in better condition than ours. Sometimes, say once in ten nights, one of the queens would be allowed to spend the night in our room with the husband. On such nights, the queen would lie in the soft bed with the king while Ezomo and I remained on the raffia mat spread on the floor, pretending not to hear the moaning and laughter and whispering of the king and his wife.
“The room is dark except for the dull light of the lantern hanging on a nail in the wall. And here I am, sitting on a wooden stool beside Ovonramwen. ”
We lived in the White Man’s District and laboured in their farmlands for months before the commissioner—the one who, as we heard, later drowned in Ekiebah River—ordered Ezomo’s execution. Apparently, Ezomo had snatched a gun from one of the soldiers and shot the soldier dead. He tried to use the gun on himself, but after his third failed attempt, three other soldiers tackled him, seized his arms, tied him with ropes, and locked him up in the underground cell. Days later, he was taken away from the White Man’s District and executed.
Shortly after Ezomo’s execution, and for reasons we do not know yet, Ovonramwen’s wives were taken away from the compound, and we’ve not seen them again.
*
Today, many years after, we are still in Calabar, and Oba Ovonramwen Nogbaisi is lying sick in bed, shivering, coughing and sighing. It is midnight. The room is dark except for the dull light of the lantern hanging on a nail in the wall. And here I am, sitting on a wooden stool beside Ovonramwen. I tell him, repeatedly: “Oba, you'll be fine”. Scared, nevertheless, that he will not survive this, for Ovonramwen has never been this terribly sick, has never talked about death the way he has been doing in the past six days.
Meanwhile, hot as the weather is, our door and windows are, as is always the case at this time of the night, locked from the outside by the soldiers, making the room feel like there are pieces of firewood burning somewhere inside of it. Later, when it is dawn, one of the soldiers will open the door and tell me to come out for the day’s labour. He will ask if Ovonramwen is still sick, and I will tell him: “Yes, he has not recovered yet”. He'll look into the room—to confirm the king’s presence—before closing the door and locking it up. Then he'll lead me and some other captives to the field, where we work until the sun sets.
Ovonramwen sneezes for the umpteenth time, and I say sorry. “Let me get you the medicine,” I add, standing from the stool. I move to the table at the middle of the room, returning almost immediately with the calabash of green liquid—liquid squeezed from mashed leaves. I sit on the stool and stretch the calabash to Ovonramwen. “Drink,” I say. But he pushes the calabash away from his face. It falls to the ground, and the liquid quickly spreads across the floor as I stare in mild shock. Ovonramwen rises slowly and sits on the bed.
“Omiriyaan,” he calls, running his fingers through his massive hair. “You have to do something. You have to talk to the white man. The Oba cannot die in a foreign land. It is an abomination.”
“Don't talk about death, Oba,” I say. “You will not die. You shall return gloriously to the land of our ancestors and reclaim your throne. You will not die, Oba.”
“Death is part of life, Omiriyaan. And we must talk about it, especially in times like this when it hovers around, when it is so palpable. Why does the white man want to deny me the joy of dying in the land of my ancestors? Has he not done enough already? He has taken away my authority over my people. For seasons, he has separated me from my family. Is that not enough? He wanted free trade; now he has it. He has continued to deprive me of Igue, the sacred festival of my people. Now, will he deprive me of having a peaceful transition and being buried in the land of my fathers?”
“Oba, I told you, you will not die. The problem is that you have refused to take your medicine. How will you get better when you have refused to take the medicine? Have pity on me, Oba. What becomes of me if you die? Yes, what becomes of me? Alone in this strange land, surrounded by enemies?”
Silence lingers for a while. Then, abruptly, Ovonramwen says, “Omiriyaan, make sure I am not buried in this town. Once I die, find a way to take my remains back to Benin and bury me there. Do you hear me?” He says this as though the spirits, those that give and take life, have just whispered into his ears that he has but a few minutes left. His words leave me with a feeling of bleakness.
Slowly, Ovonramwen falls back into the bed, taking in a deep, loud breath. Then a disturbing silence follows; not even the sound of his heavy breathing can be heard. Now suspicious, I look into his face with scrutinizing eyes and call out, “Oba! Oba!” but he doesn't answer. I tap his hand and then shake it vigorously. There's still no response.
I bring my ear to his chest and listen. There’s no heartbeat. “Oba! Oba!” I call again. Still no response.
As much as I want to believe that the king is not dead, I am convinced that he is. I equally know that a huge task—to take the dead king to the land of our fathers—lies ahead of me. But as impossible as it seems, I know that I have to try anyway. I pick up the blanket on the bed and spread it over Ovonramwen.
This is purely a work of fiction. Some of the characters and events, however, are real but have been used fictitiously in the story.
About the Author
Aguajah Ajah is an Enugu-based writer. His short story 'Relief' was published in the 2019 Kreative Diadem Annual Issue. Aside from literature, he has an interest in visual arts, photography and history.