My journey through the forest to my ‘home’ village was just the beginning of one of the most amazing days of my life. I’m not one for gooey, woolly, spiritual journeys, my sister is the one for the deep conversations, tree hugging, and power crystals, but the experiences of that day certainly touched me.
The Chinese have a saying that sometimes the journey to school can teach you more than the School Master and an hour into my soiree through the bush, I was learning fast.
I had my ear buzzed repeatedly by …something very black and buzzy, I had learnt the difficulties of ‘water-sprinting’, been ‘sensually awakened’ shall we say, by a tree with big balls, and I had sweat what seemed like pints - considering that humans are predominantly water, I was getting concerned that I may shrivel up (a process that had already started in the trouser department when I heard the tree scream…) - [ref: Blog - My Journey 'Home']
Anyway, while making our way, we came across several paths leading to other villages but we stayed on our path. We passed clearings with goalposts made out of large branches and gangs of staring and grinning children, with the odd brave one shouting: “Pepe! Welcome!” (Pepe –‘pepper’ meaning ‘red’ or ‘mixed race’).
The journey took us from dark canopy to glaring sunlight to thick bush. On exiting a particularly bushy part, we were greeted with a signpost woven in to the fauna. The typical type of old-fashioned, brilliant white, wooden signpost you would see at a crossroads in the middle of town in Windsor, was plotted next to the logging routes, pointing directions to different villages. The only difference was that this one was in the middle of thick forest – surreal. Anyway, it pointed out that, Umiagwa (oom-ee-YAG-wah), my destination, was 11 kms away to the left. It was mental having a sign pointing into yet more bush, but it was a welcome and reassuring sign of human activity after an hour or two in the lap of nature. We continued.
Sadly, the only animal I saw on the way was a small, beautiful, ‘dingo/fox-type wild dog-thingy’, that had a tan coat with a pure white underbelly. It struck me how clean and healthy it looked considering it was living in thick damp forest. However, it was very shy and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. There was the odd ‘what-was-that?’ moment, when I heard something snap or saw twitching leaves, but after a while I realised that there was enough to watch out for in my immediate vicinity, so the bush peripheries were relegated to ‘unimportant’.
It was getting later into the morning as we strolled along a path made from motorcycle tracks, when we came across a set of goalposts across the path, made from roughly cut branches, with a ‘wrap’ of roofing tin tied to the centre of the ‘crossbar’. In the tin wrap was a lot of dried (dead) plants. My cousins said that this was the ‘protection’ for our village and that I should take a photo - in Nigeria, the answer to everything is ‘tek snap.’ (‘take a snap’ – a photo). Which I did.
Moving on, this ‘protection’ was our indicator that we were not far from the village – a joyous moment. I had enjoyed my journey, but, I was also glad it was nearly over and I was excited to arrive. The track curved off to the left with thick bush either side and as we came around the apex, the bush opened out to this busy, sun soaked village with smoke and mud-huts, just 50 yards away in the clearing. It was literally like stepping onto a movie set. There was a wide central thoroughfare with cowrie shells embedded in the soil to provide a firm surface and running down either side were numerous single-storey, detached and semi-detached houses. Some were made from mud bricks and some were rendered breeze block, but all had tin roofs. I am seldom stumped for words (leave it!), but I cannot explain or rationalise what it is I love about sitting out a sudden shower listening to the sound of rain landing on a tin roof - maybe I should get on with it (or get a job).
As we entered the village, we were approached by an athletic man, probably in his mid-twenties, wearing thin sandals and dressed in a dark red wrap that went around his waist, across his chest and over his shoulder. He greeted us, unsmiling and head down, dipping slightly when offering his right hand, while holding his wrist with his left. Often a younger person will dip slightly when greeting an older person. These days, it seems more polite than required. However, once he had greeted us individually, we were granted a big toothy grin. He spoke only pigeon-english, so he communicated mainly with my cousins and just kept smiling at me. To my pleasant surprise, he knew my name (my tribal name) and shared my surname – as did most of the village. Many that did not have the same name as me, had something very similar, like the first letter being different or the last half of the name missed off.
Anyway, our arrival was greeted with what bordered on mass hysteria. You would have thought that I was a pop star or international footballer. As we walked, I became surrounded by in excess of 30 or 40 people - there were heads everywhere. My dad had arrived on the motorcycle (moto) some time before and had alerted them to my visit. They certainly made me feel welcome. We were taken to our part of the village, where my father was waiting with a comfy sofa, cold beers and oranges. I can taste them now.
Nothing had prepared me for the madness that was to come later that day, but arriving was a wonderful, wonderful feeling.
By the way, when I developed the film of that day, the only photos that came out were the ones BEFORE the photo of the ‘juju’ or ‘village protection’. All the pictures in the chalet and breakfast room before leaving were there, the pictures of the forest where we had started to walk, a photo of a stream (because it seemed a good idea at the time…), and at the bus stop – but blank negatives on everything after the ‘juju’.
Spooky, huh?
