When the laughter finally died down, he was told that his hands bore no blood. He was not qualified to join their feast.
By Iko Odoba
There was no way to observe the passage of time here, but Obaje knew it had been a long time since he arrived. In fact, time itself seemed absurd, dragging the aesthetics of consciousness along an invisible road. Time didn’t seem to exist here. Events simply unfolded without measure. Life here seemed to run on a wheel, spinning you fast enough to make you dizzy but never enough to make you pass out—because there was no exit from here.
Obaje had been here a long time, but he hadn’t yet been allowed to join the feast, so he kept wandering with his arms akimbo. This was the place everyone came to after their journey was over. He could see his father and his brothers there, and he barely recognised his grandfather. He saw others whom he assumed were his forefathers—and he wasn’t wrong. Each family had a circle set aside for them so that when they crossed over, they would have their own place to wine and dine.
Obaje was aware of the tenets but chose to follow the ways of the foreign man. He grew up learning the beliefs of the foreign man and decided they were better. He remembered the instruction he gave to his children on his deathbed:
“When I die, bury me according to the rites of my religion only”. It was another way of saying they shouldn’t bury him in the ways of his ancestors, the customs first men had established for generations to follow. This was a long chain of beliefs, upheld from father to son, down through the line. But he had caused a disruption. He was the disruption.
How was he expected to know that his actions had dire consequences? He was a man who’d built a name and reputation for himself in the religion he practised. He dedicated himself to its long-held beliefs and he found peace in them, even though the universe constantly reminded him that he owed his peace of mind to a foreign god.
He was still wandering when he saw one of his nephews stroll past. The young man had just crossed over. Obaje could hear the uproar from where they were feasting. They were welcoming him to the grand feast, which filled the air—if air even existed here—with celestial sounds of gongs and drums.
No one could see who beat the drums or played the flutes and gongs, but their sounds were irresistible, even to the spirits. Every one of them sang aloud, their voices glorious. Obaje couldn’t fully understand the lyrics of the songs. He was outside the burning circle.
Many of them danced with agility, to the sounds emanating from the mysterious corners. He observed, with amusement, one of his brothers who wouldn’t stop dancing. He knew him back on earth as a tough, strict person who would consider dancing as one frivolous activity. It dawned on Obaje that the life they lived as spirits was a life of fulfilment, woven from the very beginning.
He noticed that his nephew, who had just crossed over, had blood-soaked hands—evidence that the necessary rites had been performed on him. The blood would be used to prepare the next meal for the feast, a final step in fully inducting him into the circle and the long ancestral lineage.
He couldn’t forget the time he first arrived. There had been jubilation upon seeing him—a triumphant welcome from his kinsmen, just as he’d somehow anticipated. But what he hadn’t foreseen was when a forefather instructed him to stretch out his hands. The laughter that erupted when he did was thunderous, laced with mockery. When the laughter finally died down, he was told that his hands bore no blood. He was not qualified to join their feast.
The realm stretched endlessly, with no boundary in sight. In every direction, it was an expanse of plainness, vast and unending. He drifted a little bit farther away from his family’s circle. He could still hear the music and the joyous chants. Along the way, he noticed other wanderers like himself. Some had been buried in foreign rites, just as he had. Others, he assumed, must have died mysteriously or far from home, never laid to rest by their own people.
He wandered and got to a point that marked the boundary between the realm and the subconscious of the living. From where he stood, he searched for the heart of his eldest son, Onoja—a man whose spirit was more attuned to the supernatural than any of his siblings. The moment he found Onoja’s presence, he sensed an opening, a chance to slip into his son’s dreams and leave a message there.
“Onoja. Get up! My fathers won’t allow me join the feast. They won’t let me eat. I’m starving over here”. He didn’t have enough time. A strain to the communication chain and he would be endangering the life of his son.
The bond that tethered him to his son’s subconscious was a fragile thread, one that would snap at the slightest pressure, so he made sure he conveyed his message very quickly albeit in the most alarming tone that he knew of.
Obaje waited ceaselessly. He would repeatedly gain access to his son’s dreams at intervals separated by what seemed to be endless wandering and cry out with a shrilling voice. He ensured his voice carried the weight of the situation. A time came when he felt he needed to give the boundary a break.
He walked over to a region where wanderers had made a resting place for themselves. There were only a few others around, and the place was eerily quiet. He found a spot and sat there, contemplating the festivities happening in his family’s circle. He had no right to be angry; he had brought this upon himself. He had ignored the anecdotes of those who came before him and had tied his calabash to a ceiling that leaked vanity.
He didn’t know how long he had spent there before he felt a change within him. His head felt lighter. He realised his son had listened to his cry and had acted as instructed. He could hear the prayers and enchantments of the intermediary between the world of the living and the spirit realm. The sounds of earthly songs reached him, ranging from tunes of mourning to those of celebration.
He could see the masquerades all dancing to his transit. The beads at their feet made rhythmic sounds that shook the body in every dimension. He raised his hands to his face and what he saw thereafter drove all the ill feelings in him to the atmosphere they came from. He took a leap immediately – walking in full glory and with hands covered in blood, fresh and red – towards the circle he belongs to for eternity, where the feast never ends.
Iko Odoba is a writer from a place covered in red earth in North-Central Nigeria. His writing, which can take the form of fiction, nonfiction or poetry, is a reflection of his immediate environment. You can contact him on X: @_IkoOjo.
Cover photo credit: Pexels