Chapter one: Amende – the stream water

Amende is a story about a young boy whose identity was hidden from him because of a series of events that happened before he was born. But he is a child of destiny, and he will eventually discover he is and in the process helps his people to amend a decade of miscarriage of justice.

Want to learn more about storytelling? Start by downloading the first chapter of The Storytelling Series for Small Businesses.

Today’s short read is from the book Amende – The Stream Water and it’s available on Amazon if you want to get a copy for yourself and read along.

The story is set in Esan, southern Nigeria, and it’s a book you can easily read in few evenings even if you are not a fast reader and it will help you delve into African culture and the delicate balance between human and divine justices. We are in Chapter 1 of the book. Now, the reading:

“It is a quiet evening in Okpujie village; the sun has disappeared from the sky, allowing the moon to dominate the village’s blue sky. The incoming noise is intense, and it comes from all the inhabitants of Okpujie, returning from the village square. To reinforce their loud arguments, some were stopping from time to time and some others were rushing to their homes as if they had already overstayed outside. It was the second time the people had gathered for the same reason. Two months had passed since the yearly start of planting season, and it was yet to rain. Not even a drop of water to wet the dust.  

Some were speculating that the lack of rain was a punishment from the gods for wrongdoings in the village and some others were saying that the bad people in the village were the ones holding back the rain. Whatever the explanation might be, the gathering of all the seven quarters of Okpujie village was to pray for rain so that the people could plant their usual food crops such as yams, cassava, and vegetables. 

The village square was where the main road also ends. The mud houses along the road had one thing in common: they were all red, the color of Okpujie soil, a major character in the whole of Esan land. Of all the houses in the village, the one at the center of the square truly stands out the most. No one entered the village without seeing it. It was strategically located to overlook the long village road, leading to the large square, and was probably the oldest house in the village.  

It had been in the same condition for as long as the people could remember: no renovation, no major damage, and no intention to rebuild it. All the people in the village were aware that they would never dwell in the public house, also referred to as “Okoghele”, yet they all held it in very high regard, at least for what it stood for. Only the most elderly men in the village did occasionally enter the house to deliberate on some important issues affecting the people. 

 “This land has brought forth numerous children, favoring both the bad and the good ones. It is not the land that is responsible for the people’s hardships, it is the people themselves,” Okokpujie, the village storyteller, told a crowd of children who had come to listen to him as usual. They sat around him in a semi-circle. The same children had equally been to the village square and had contributed their part with their noise while playing in the sand. They were still there long after their parents had returned home.  

They were the “Children of the soil,” and they were not afraid to show it. Their bodies were of the same color as the dust, and they were happy with it. Meanwhile, the older people, who by now hated the foolishness of the children for dirtying their bodies in the sand, often forgot that they had once done the same. The children were like a bunch of newly hatched chickens, yet to be taught about the rough edges of life. Their duty was to be silent and listen to the storytelling of Okokpujie, the only reason they were there.  

The evening is now breezy, the kind of breeze that encourages you to shut off your senses and listen to the rhythm of nature. The bright moon had now disappeared from the sky, leaving the village in complete darkness. At the center of the crowd was a burning fire. From time to time, it sparked twinkles of fire, forcing the children at the front to reshuffle quickly, thus allowing those at the back to have a better view. The evening was relatively cold, so the burning fire was serving both as light in the dark and as heat to warm them up.  

“Khara odionwale” (greetings sir), a passerby said and walked away. Okokpujie turned his face to see the person who had greeted him, but it was dark all around, except within the semi-circle. Looking for a while and not seeing anything and not fully sure whether he had heard someone’s voice or whether it was his voice, he turned back towards the children, who were waiting to hear how the story would end. 

As usual, his stories were about Okpujie village, how their forefathers had migrated from the ancient kingdom of Benin, many years back, and how they had built the first mud houses in the village, none of which were standing anymore. From the time of the first settlers in Okpujie, the village had always wrestled with the fierce forces of nature, and some of the oldest houses in the village were bearing witness to that. They had been repeatedly broken by strong winds and heavy rainfall, only to be mended during the dry seasons and to suffer a similar fate when the winds and the rain came calling again.  

Okokpujie’s stories were also about how they planted and harvested different crops in the village, the damage done by tropical pests and rodents, and how the people managed to contain them over the years. He told them about friendship and conflicts with the neighboring villages, five in number, with only three of them truly considered good neighbors. All the people in the village were aware of those conflicts, most especially when there was a major event involving all the villages.  

Historically, Okokpujie had told the children everything they needed to know. Yet, at every nightfall, they always had something new to expect. His stories were a duty nobody had assigned to him, and he did it day after day without complaining.  

Every evening he took the time to stay with the children, making them laugh and learn in front of his hut. His tiny hut was built under a domineering tree (Ovu), which resembled a giant baobab tree. The front of the house was like another village square, at least in that quarter of the village. When the story was finally over that evening, and some of the children were asking questions, a small boy from behind broke in, as if he wanted to respond to an earlier question, and said:  

“Pa, will you tell us about the big war tomorrow evening?” all the other children turned to look at him. Another boy called the first by his name with a rather unfriendly tone and a momentary silence followed: 

“Amende…!” 

The wind was beginning to be much heavier, and the night slowly lost its serenity. The old man looked around in the dark and the children were unsure of what he wanted to say. His eyes were dim as though he did not see well. With the blowing wind, the fire was now becoming redder and sparkly. 

“Children,” Okokpujie called as he began to support himself up on his wooden chair: 

“This is like the wind of rain. Our ancestors might answer our prayers tonight. Return to your mothers, I shall tell you about the big war tomorrow…”  

The promised tomorrow was like a sort of unwritten contract between Okokpujie and the children, a reason to reunite them again even when today was gone. The children clearly heard the last word as the wind began to blow much stronger. The sound of moving dried leaves on corrugated roofs was becoming tenser and the women who appeared to have long slept were now all awake and calling their children home. All the children rose to their feet and started running home in various directions. 

“Amende!” called a fat boy who ran from behind. His face was as hateful as if he was born on an evil day. “You have terminated the storytelling again this evening with your stupidity… don’t let me see you here tomorrow night! Did you hear me?”

End of the reading. The book and all my books are also available on Amazon so you can order your copies from there. Have a good reading and remember to share your thoughts and inspirations about the book.

Want to learn more about storytelling? Start by downloading the first chapter of The Storytelling Series for Small Businesses.