to see the spectacle. As they approached Nkwo its voice grew bigger and bigger until it drowned their conversation.
They were just in time to see the arrival of the five wives of Nwaka and the big stir they caused. Each of them wore not anklets but two enormous rollers of ivory reaching from the ankle almost to the knee. Their walk was perforce slow and deliberate, like the walk of an Ijele Mask lifting and lowering each foot with weighty ceremony. On top of all this the women were clad in many coloured velvets. Ivory and velvets were not new in Umuaro but never before had they been seen in such profusion from the house of one man.
Obika and his good friend, Ofoedu, sat with three other young men from Umuagu on the crude mat woven on the ground by exposed roots of an ogbu tree. In their midst stood two black pots of palm wine. Just outside their circle one empty pot lay on its side. One of the men was already drunk, but neither Obika nor Ofoedu appeared to have drunk a drop yet.
‘Is it true, Obika,’ asked one of the men, ‘that your new bride has not returned after her first visit?’
‘Yes, my friend,’ Obika replied light-heartedly. ‘My things always turn out differently from other people’s. If I drink water it sticks between my teeth.’
‘Do not heed him,’ said Ofoedu. ‘Her mother is ill and her father asked if she could stay back and look after her for a while.’
‘Aha, I knew the story I heard could not be true. How could a young bride hesitate over a handsome ugonachomma like Obika?’
‘Ah, my friend, come out from that,’ said the half-drunk man. ‘She may not like the size of his penis.’
‘But she has never seen it,’ said Obika.
‘You are talking to small boys of yesterday: She has not seen it!’
Soon after, the great Ikolo sounded. It called the six villages of Umuaro one by one in their ancient order: Umunneora, Umuagu, Umuezeani, Umuogwugwu, Umuisiuzo and Umuachala. As it called each village an enormous shout went up in the market place. It went through the number again but this time starting from the youngest. People began to hurry through their drinking before the arrival of the Chief Priest.
The Ikolo now beat unceasingly; sometimes it called names of important people of Umuaro, like Nwaka, Nwosisi, Igboneme and Uduezue. But most of the time it called the villages and their deities. Finally it settled down to saluting Ulu, the deity of all Umuaro.
Obiozo Ezikolo was now an old man, but his mastery of the king of all drums was still unrivalled. Many years ago when he was still a young man the six villages had decided to confer the ozo title on him for his great art which stirred the hearts of his kinsmen so powerfully in times of war. Now in his old age it was a marvel where he got the strength to work as he did. Even climbing on to the Ikolo was a great feat for a man half his age. Now those who were near enough surrounded the drum and looked upwards to admire the ancient drummer. A man well known to him raised his voice and saluted him. He shouted back: ‘An old woman is never old when it comes to the dance she knows.’ The crowd laughed.
The Ikolo was fashioned in the olden days from a giant iroko tree at the very spot where it was felled. The Ikolo was as old as Ulu himself at whose order the tree was cut down and its trunk hollowed out into a drum. Since those days it had lain on the same spot in the sun and in the rain. Its body was carved with men and pythons and little steps were cut on one side; without these the drummer could not climb to the top to beat it. When the Ikolo was beaten for war it was decorated with skulls won in past wars. But now it sang of peace.
A big ogene sounded three times from Ulu’s shrine. The Ikolo took it up and sustained an endless flow of praises to the deity. At the same time Ezeulu’s messengers began to clear the centre of the market place. Although they were each armed with a whip of palm frond they had a difficult time. The
They were just in time to see the arrival of the five wives of Nwaka and the big stir they caused. Each of them wore not anklets but two enormous rollers of ivory reaching from the ankle almost to the knee. Their walk was perforce slow and deliberate, like the walk of an Ijele Mask lifting and lowering each foot with weighty ceremony. On top of all this the women were clad in many coloured velvets. Ivory and velvets were not new in Umuaro but never before had they been seen in such profusion from the house of one man.
Obika and his good friend, Ofoedu, sat with three other young men from Umuagu on the crude mat woven on the ground by exposed roots of an ogbu tree. In their midst stood two black pots of palm wine. Just outside their circle one empty pot lay on its side. One of the men was already drunk, but neither Obika nor Ofoedu appeared to have drunk a drop yet.
‘Is it true, Obika,’ asked one of the men, ‘that your new bride has not returned after her first visit?’
‘Yes, my friend,’ Obika replied light-heartedly. ‘My things always turn out differently from other people’s. If I drink water it sticks between my teeth.’
‘Do not heed him,’ said Ofoedu. ‘Her mother is ill and her father asked if she could stay back and look after her for a while.’
‘Aha, I knew the story I heard could not be true. How could a young bride hesitate over a handsome ugonachomma like Obika?’
‘Ah, my friend, come out from that,’ said the half-drunk man. ‘She may not like the size of his penis.’
‘But she has never seen it,’ said Obika.
‘You are talking to small boys of yesterday: She has not seen it!’
Soon after, the great Ikolo sounded. It called the six villages of Umuaro one by one in their ancient order: Umunneora, Umuagu, Umuezeani, Umuogwugwu, Umuisiuzo and Umuachala. As it called each village an enormous shout went up in the market place. It went through the number again but this time starting from the youngest. People began to hurry through their drinking before the arrival of the Chief Priest.
The Ikolo now beat unceasingly; sometimes it called names of important people of Umuaro, like Nwaka, Nwosisi, Igboneme and Uduezue. But most of the time it called the villages and their deities. Finally it settled down to saluting Ulu, the deity of all Umuaro.
Obiozo Ezikolo was now an old man, but his mastery of the king of all drums was still unrivalled. Many years ago when he was still a young man the six villages had decided to confer the ozo title on him for his great art which stirred the hearts of his kinsmen so powerfully in times of war. Now in his old age it was a marvel where he got the strength to work as he did. Even climbing on to the Ikolo was a great feat for a man half his age. Now those who were near enough surrounded the drum and looked upwards to admire the ancient drummer. A man well known to him raised his voice and saluted him. He shouted back: ‘An old woman is never old when it comes to the dance she knows.’ The crowd laughed.
The Ikolo was fashioned in the olden days from a giant iroko tree at the very spot where it was felled. The Ikolo was as old as Ulu himself at whose order the tree was cut down and its trunk hollowed out into a drum. Since those days it had lain on the same spot in the sun and in the rain. Its body was carved with men and pythons and little steps were cut on one side; without these the drummer could not climb to the top to beat it. When the Ikolo was beaten for war it was decorated with skulls won in past wars. But now it sang of peace.
A big ogene sounded three times from Ulu’s shrine. The Ikolo took it up and sustained an endless flow of praises to the deity. At the same time Ezeulu’s messengers began to clear the centre of the market place. Although they were each armed with a whip of palm frond they had a difficult time. The
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