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[afriquefolktales]

OBALEDO

Now, in Igboland, in the time when demons and spirits still roamed around the villages and the forests alike, in the time before the men with white skins came to the shores of our country, there lived a beautiful girl called Obaledo, whose skin shone like fried groundnuts.

There had been a day set aside for the spirits and demons to meet at the market, by Mother Ala — their own market day. This was a special day, on which no person was allowed to leave their houses, as whoever did, would be met with a spirit. If their chi was good to them, it would be a good spirit they would meet, but if they were unlucky, they would meet a bad one. And bad ones were frequently met.

Now, a day before the market day of the spirits, Obaledo’s parents were traveling to Umuofia, the village of Ndidi’s mother, to bury Obaledo’s uncle, who had been killed at the claws of a leopard. Before they left, Okonkwo, Obaledo’s father, sat her down.

“Obaledo,” he said.

“Yes, Papa,” she answered.

“Obaledo,” he called again.

She answered.

“I believe you know tomorrow is the day of the spirits.”

“I know, Papa.”

“And you know what happens when you leave the house on such a day?”

“I will meet an evil spirit, Papa.”

“Good,” he nodded solemnly. “And so, you cannot leave. You are my only daughter. I hope you understand that?”

“I do, Papa.”

“Good.” He nodded again, his head bobbing up and down like a fowl’s. He stood up from the stool he sat on, and left. Obaledo has scarcely started to rise from the floor where she sat, when Ndidi came and sat on the stool.

“Nne m,” she called lovingly. It was a special name Ndidi had for her. It meant “my mother,” because Obaledo was believed to be the reincarnation of Ijeoma, Ndidi’s mother.

“Yes, Mama.”

“I have ensured there is food for you until we return the day after tomorrow, when we have buried your uncle,” she said hurriedly, as if there was no breath in her.

“What food is that, Mama?” Obaledo asked, her eyes lighting up at the mention of food.

“Yams and snails, Nne m,” she said, smiling. Then her face became stern. “But you must listen to me now, my daughter. There isn’t much firewood left, only enough for one day.” She paused, exhaling. “You must be miserly with it. Ensure you roast the yam first, make it enough for tomorrow and the day after. After you have finished, then you may roast the snails for meat. The snails will quench the fire eventually.” She paused, and reached for her left cheek, smiling. “I know how much you love them.”

And with that, the man and his wife set off for Umuofia. Obaledo, soon after that, ate up the leftovers from their breakfast, and went to bed.

When she awoke the next day, it was the day of the spirits. She got up from her raffia mat in a rush, to cover the windows and the door with dyed drapes her mother made for the occasion.

Afterwards, she realized she was quite hungry, and she settled down and lit up a fire. She began to roast the yams, but after a while, she became impatient at the slowness of the yams and the fire.

“These yams are far too slow,” she said to herself. “Where are the snails?”

She was a disobedient girl, you see, and she had a deep rooted love for snail meat.

Taking off the yams from the fire, she began to roast the snails. One had scarcely been half-roasted, when the slime from the snail dropped onto the coal from the firewood, killing the fire, and the coals as well.

Obaledo was aghast.

In a panic, she began to try to resurrect the fire, but all her attempts failed woefully. She left the fire, and went back to her mat. “I will sleep until tomorrow,” she said, gripping her growling stomach with two hands. “Yes, I will,” she resolved.

Her stomach let her sleep for an hour.

And it became angry again.

She awoke, the hunger much more desperate than it was an hour earlier. It was almost threatening to devour her stomach from inside.

“I will go to Ikemefuna’s hut,” she thought. “It is close, and I won’t meet any spirits around the house at least.” She smiled at her wonderful idea.

She changed out of her wrapper, wearing a pretty indigo one, and went out of the hut. Fear gripped her, with every slow doubtful step she took, but the hunger in her stomach filled her resolve every time.

She had hardly gone a few meters from her house to her neighbors’, when she saw an ugly black figure, the fiery red balls in its head looking down at her angrily.

It was large, tall, and very, very ugly. Its skin was as black as coal, and its face was incomprehensible, filled with bumps and warts all over. There were markings all over its body, that alarmed Obaledo.

They were ones Okonkwo had told her about.

The markings of an evil spirit.

“Body of Obaledo, do you know me!” the spirit thundered. It was more of a statement than a question.

Obaledo stood there, stammering and sweating. The words she wanted to speak clutched the walls of her throat, like a frightened child clutched her mother’s wrapper.

Obaledo did not understand the language of the spirits, as she was still too young. It was something that only men and women could speak, and listen to.

The Spirit refused to understand this.

“Body of Obaledo! Do you refuse to answer!” he roared again.

Obaledo was speechless, staring at the spirit in fear, as he grew angrier at the disrespect of the girl.

The Spirit reached out and gripped at her face with its large hands.

It began to laugh loudly, as Obaledo felt her face swelling and changing. When she touched it, she felt warts and bumps on her face. And when she looked at her skin, it was blackening. Almost to the color of coal.

Obaledo collapsed to the ground, sobbing, as the spirit vanished into thin air, the dark laughter taking root in her ears, like a yamseed in planting season.

She would never forget that laugh.

[afriquefolktales]

OBALEDO

Now, in Igboland, in the time when demons and spirits still roamed around the villages and the forests alike, in the time before the men with white skins came to the shores of our country, there lived a beautiful girl called Obaledo, whose skin shone like fried groundnuts.

There had been a day set aside for the spirits and demons to meet at the market, by Mother Ala — their own market day. This was a special day, on which no person was allowed to leave their houses, as whoever did, would be met with a spirit. If their chi was good to them, it would be a good spirit they would meet, but if they were unlucky, they would meet a bad one. And bad ones were frequently met.

Now, a day before the market day of the spirits, Obaledo’s parents were traveling to Umuofia, the village of Ndidi’s mother, to bury Obaledo’s uncle, who had been killed at the claws of a leopard. Before they left, Okonkwo, Obaledo’s father, sat her down.

“Obaledo,” he said.

“Yes, Papa,” she answered.

“Obaledo,” he called again.

She answered.

“I believe you know tomorrow is the day of the spirits.”

“I know, Papa.”

“And you know what happens when you leave the house on such a day?”

“I will meet an evil spirit, Papa.”

“Good,” he nodded solemnly. “And so, you cannot leave. You are my only daughter. I hope you understand that?”

“I do, Papa.”

“Good.” He nodded again, his head bobbing up and down like a fowl’s. He stood up from the stool he sat on, and left. Obaledo has scarcely started to rise from the floor where she sat, when Ndidi came and sat on the stool.

“Nne m,” she called lovingly. It was a special name Ndidi had for her. It meant “my mother,” because Obaledo was believed to be the reincarnation of Ijeoma, Ndidi’s mother.

“Yes, Mama.”

“I have ensured there is food for you until we return the day after tomorrow, when we have buried your uncle,” she said hurriedly, as if there was no breath in her.

“What food is that, Mama?” Obaledo asked, her eyes lighting up at the mention of food.

“Yams and snails, Nne m,” she said, smiling. Then her face became stern. “But you must listen to me now, my daughter. There isn’t much firewood left, only enough for one day.” She paused, exhaling. “You must be miserly with it. Ensure you roast the yam first, make it enough for tomorrow and the day after. After you have finished, then you may roast the snails for meat. The snails will quench the fire eventually.” She paused, and reached for her left cheek, smiling. “I know how much you love them.”

And with that, the man and his wife set off for Umuofia. Obaledo, soon after that, ate up the leftovers from their breakfast, and went to bed.

When she awoke the next day, it was the day of the spirits. She got up from her raffia mat in a rush, to cover the windows and the door with dyed drapes her mother made for the occasion.

Afterwards, she realized she was quite hungry, and she settled down and lit up a fire. She began to roast the yams, but after a while, she became impatient at the slowness of the yams and the fire.

“These yams are far too slow,” she said to herself. “Where are the snails?”

She was a disobedient girl, you see, and she had a deep rooted love for snail meat.

Taking off the yams from the fire, she began to roast the snails. One had scarcely been half-roasted, when the slime from the snail dropped onto the coal from the firewood, killing the fire, and the coals as well.

Obaledo was aghast.

In a panic, she began to try to resurrect the fire, but all her attempts failed woefully. She left the fire, and went back to her mat. “I will sleep until tomorrow,” she said, gripping her growling stomach with two hands. “Yes, I will,” she resolved.

Her stomach let her sleep for an hour.

And it became angry again.

She awoke, the hunger much more desperate than it was an hour earlier. It was almost threatening to devour her stomach from inside.

“I will go to Ikemefuna’s hut,” she thought. “It is close, and I won’t meet any spirits around the house at least.” She smiled at her wonderful idea.

She changed out of her wrapper, wearing a pretty indigo one, and went out of the hut. Fear gripped her, with every slow doubtful step she took, but the hunger in her stomach filled her resolve every time.

She had hardly gone a few meters from her house to her neighbors’, when she saw an ugly black figure, the fiery red balls in its head looking down at her angrily.

It was large, tall, and very, very ugly. Its skin was as black as coal, and its face was incomprehensible, filled with bumps and warts all over. There were markings all over its body, that alarmed Obaledo.

They were ones Okonkwo had told her about.

The markings of an evil spirit.

“Body of Obaledo, do you know me!” the spirit thundered. It was more of a statement than a question.

Obaledo stood there, stammering and sweating. The words she wanted to speak clutched the walls of her throat, like a frightened child clutched her mother’s wrapper.

Obaledo did not understand the language of the spirits, as she was still too young. It was something that only men and women could speak, and listen to.

The Spirit refused to understand this.

“Body of Obaledo! Do you refuse to answer!” he roared again.

Obaledo was speechless, staring at the spirit in fear, as he grew angrier at the disrespect of the girl.

The Spirit reached out and gripped at her face with its large hands.

It began to laugh loudly, as Obaledo felt her face swelling and changing. When she touched it, she felt warts and bumps on her face. And when she looked at her skin, it was blackening. Almost to the color of coal.

Obaledo collapsed to the ground, sobbing, as the spirit vanished into thin air, the dark laughter taking root in her ears, like a yamseed in planting season.

She would never forget that laugh.