Ajja and the Children of Nature

Image: Bernd Dittrich

“So, will you tell me the story?” asked Som, his small voice sunny with hope. 

With a long sigh, I replied, “But after the story, you sleep. No mumu questions, and tomorrow, if you like, cry blood, I’m not telling you anything.” 

Giggling, he nodded. The rough floor of the hut chaffed my buttocks and thighs as I shimmied into a more comfortable position. I racked my head for a story. None comes to mind. The shrill cry of a night bird pierced the night. My grandmother used to say they were amosu, witches, on a nightly journey to the meeting tree. On other days, she said they were spirits of the night, spreading the blanket of sleep over the world below. The fire was possessed of a devil and burnt excitedly, casting ghostly silhouettes on the cracked, muddy walls. Taking a deep breath, I began. 

This is the story of transformation or mgbanwe, as our people say. The story of a woman called Ajja. Many years after the beginning of time, Ajja, after years of childlessness and ridicule, had gone to the gods of the forest to ask for a child to brighten up her old age. The old gods of the forest, touched by the woman’s sorrow, decided to give her three tests to see how worthy she was to carry nature’s child. The mountains of Awgu were once thought of as the abode of the spirits of nature. Ajja was to serve them for seven days. This was the test of servitude. During those seven days, she was to live in the cave of rebirth and serve in complete silence, eating only a fruit of the udala and ugili tree daily; this was the test of silence. At the end of the seven days, there was a final test. The test of blood. Failing the first two tests meant she would go back to a miserable, childless life. But if she failed the last, the mountains would absorb her soul forever. Ajja’s bladder filled with urine as the gods echoed their terms. Old bones trembling, she spilled three drops of blood on the altar to seal the agreement. The first day of Ajja’s test dawned bright and sunny. With a hopeful heart, she set about her duties. She imagined what her child would look like. 

Would it be a boy or a girl? Oh, how she hoped it would be a girl. 

A pretty girl with full, woolly hair that reached up to the sky in wonder. Oh, how much time she would spend braiding that child’s hair! 

A child that would drink in the ocean of affection she had to give and see the world in ways she had not been allowed to see. 

She would name her something beautiful like Olamma, Uremma, or Mkpurumma, a testimony that uwa mgbede, life in old age, can be beautiful. 

Boys always left to find their path, but if it were a boy, she would love him nonetheless.

She would tell him stories of his father, Okoloye, and his zest for life. 

She would tell him of how he brandished his bravery like his obejiri. Of how he was never too afraid to open his heart to love or too proud to admit he was afraid. 

She would name her son Nnanna or Enyinnaya, a tribute to Okoloye’s indomitable spirit. 

The spirits of the forests were demanding and sent her on futile tasks. She was to fill the dried-up springs with water from the streams at the foot of the mountain. She carried many pots of water up the mountain, but the scorching heat instantly dried the water as she emptied the pots. Ajja’s frustration grew with each trip she made. By the time the sun blazed tangerine in the dusky horizon, she was the picture of dejection. But she didn’t utter a word.

That night was a lesson in pain. Her bones ached from the trips and from sleeping on the cold, hard ground of the cave. Her soul ached. A quiet voice told her to abandon this while she still had the chance. Dawn came, and with it rose Ajja. The day was beautiful, the sun’s rays were soothing, the birds chirped excitedly, and nature bloomed prettily as the spirits of nature finished their duties. Ajja was an island of gloom amidst the expanse of beauty and cheer around her. Hunger had set in. Her stomach growled painfully as she hefted the heavy earthenware pot of water up and down the treacherous mountain slope. She fell many times, scraping her skin on the rocky slope of the mountains, but she picked herself up each time and continued wearily. On one trip, the pot shattered. Staring at the shattered remains of the pot, she could feel the screams of frustration bubbling inside her, but she picked up the clay shards and went up the mountain. There, another pot of water was waiting for her by the brink of the spring. She emptied it into the river, and it dried up as usual. 

She staggered to the cave at noon, and as usual, an Udara fruit was waiting for her. Today’s Udara had none of the sweetness of yesterday’s. She sucked on the fruit halfheartedly, wincing at the sour slaps. She was so hungry that she ate the fruit whole, but her stomach grumbled despite the weight of the Udara seeds. The evening meal of an ugili fruit was no better. She could feel the strength leaving her body, but reminded herself it was just for a few days. She could rest when she had nature’s child sleeping at her breast. 

On the third day, Ajja discovered a trick. The spirits of nature always did their work at night and slept during the day. The springs were easier to fill at predawn without the sun to dry up the water. So, on the fourth day, Ajja woke before night began its battle with dawn. Dew clung to sleeping flower petals and leaves as the spirits of the night went about their business. Ajja went down to the stream and began her duty as usual. She emptied the first pot into the spring. The water sloshed but didn’t evaporate. She nearly sang for joy. She continued her task. 

One pot more. 

Three. 

Then ten. 

Spurred on by her success, her steps became more agile, more purposeful. When dawn broke, and the spirits of nature yawned to sleep within the mountains, Ajja had emptied 25 pots into the gaping spring. She stared at her reflection on the calm surface of the water. Her face was gaunt, and her soft groundnut complexion had darkened to a weather-beaten mahogany. More strands of grey slithered over her otherwise black braids. Sighing, she went down the mountain once more. Halfway down, she stopped; something was moving on the muddy ground before her left foot. Her terror vanished when she saw it had wings. It was only a bird. 

“But there were no nests around,” she thought as she looked around. She put the bird into her pot and went down. At the stream, she washed the little bird. The mud washed off, revealing golden-brown, downy feathers growing in patches over a skinny frame. 

An eaglet. 

Its wings were not strong enough for flight. Ajja fastened the little bird to her breast, and the little thing snuggled close, thankful for the warmth. Ajja searched for a nest but found none where the little bird could belong to. 

Noon came quickly. Not wanting to violate the instructions, Ajja fed the bird her food. She continued like this for days, carefully hiding the bird from the spirits’ watchful eyes. By the seventh day, Ajja had grown haggard, but her eyes shone brightly. The little bird, on the other hand, was stronger and livelier. When the last test came, Ajja wrapped the eaglet in some leaves and hid it among some rocks outside the cave before going into the innermost chambers of the cave of rebirth. She sat there and waited for night to fall. When the first stars twinkled into the sky, the spirits trickled in one after the other, eager to see the outcome of the final test. Many people before Ajja, each with different needs and from different walks of life, had failed this last test. Their spirits groaned from within the mountain. 

The floor of the cave rumbled as two altars emerged. On one was a beautiful newborn, crying painfully as it took its first breath. On the other was her eaglet, the one she had saved from a muddy death and had nursed to health. The voice of the old gods rumbled like thunder. Ajja was to save one and let the other die. Ajja looked at the crying newborn; little palms balled to fists, veins crisscrossing her young, reddened face. And then at the eaglet, chittering excitedly when it saw her, oblivious that its frail life was in her hands. This should be an easy choice. The child had so much to live for and thus should live. But shouldn’t the eaglet? The mournful cries of the trapped souls rose, exulting in the hope of welcoming Ajja’s soul. A fat worm of despair wriggled in the very marrow of her bones, and hot urine pooled in her belly. Childless freedom was better than eternal imprisonment, but she couldn’t turn back now. The gods were getting impatient. She had to make a choice. In a shaky voice, she began. 

“Ndi nna anyi, I’m sorry, but I cannot doom any of them. Life is neither mine to take nor to spare. They are both children of the same mother, children of nature. And I cannot snatch a child away from its mother just because I want one for myself. A nara eme ya eme. It’s not done. Faced with this decision a few days ago, I would have answered instantly. But these past few days, left with nothing but my pot, my thoughts, and caring for this child,” pointing to the cheery eaglet, “I felt something I had not felt in a while: joy. My belly hungered, but seeing it grow in strength made my pain fade. His company made my burden bearable and my nights peaceful—” 

“You have to make a choice. Blood must be given for blood,” interrupted one god. His voice was whiplash, cracking over the silence of the cave. Ajja flinched. 

In a bolder voice, she replied, “Then take me. I’d rather die than have a child’s innocent blood colouring my conscience. Take me.” She bowed her head and waited for what was sure to come. The cave was filled with whispers as lower and higher spirits debated what should be done. 

“Very well,” rumbled the old gods. “The test of blood should end with blood, be it young or old.” The cave erupted in a flurry of heavy winds. Rocks pelted her as the floor of the cave yawned open. Nature stood still as Ajja faced death. The heart of the mountain was a stream of fire. Fear consumed her and leaked between her legs in a stream of amber as she stared into the fiery lake. The little eaglet chirped frantically as the lower spirits edged Ajja off the edge. The lake bubbled as sulfur rose in steams to where Ajja stood trembling. 

She should have stayed home. She should have contented herself with living in the little hut her husband had left her, empty as it had been. She would have focused on her little herb garden and tending her chickens and goats. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of weeds overpowering her gentle herbs and flowers at her death. With one final push, Ajja fell off the cliff. Her screams shook the cave and the entire mountain. Everything went silent as she tumbled face down towards the thick magma. As fiery death rose to meet her, Ajja closed her eyes and imagined life as it had been before.

The way love had knocked on the door of her heart when she first saw her husband, Okoloye. 

She remembered the happiness she had felt getting married to him and how they used to play and fight in their little hut on the outskirts of the village. 

The pity that came when many years passed and no cries were heard from their home. 

The ridicule she faced each time she went to the village market, the taunts of “nwoke”, “witch”, and “amosu” she endured, and how Okoloye always leapt to her defence. 

The grief that tore at her soul when she was told Okoloye had been mauled to death by a bear, and the hermit life she had been forced to live. 

Finally, she thought of the little eaglet. 

The steam from the pool scalded off her skin to reveal the red flesh within, and just as she was about to break the pool’s surface, something snatched her up. Eyes fluttering open weakly, she made out the golden brown outline of a giant bird. She closed them once again in pain as the burns on her skin flamed. The bird dropped her before the altar and covered her with its great wings. Her body was covered in ugly burns, burns that became uglier with each second. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She couldn’t speak. The steam had burned the delicate skin of her neck and her voice box. Through the space between the bird’s wings, Ajja saw Okoloye walking towards her, eyes shining and right palm outstretched. Her eyes fluttered closed in peace. Blood had been given for blood. 

Ajja opened her eyes. This world seemed different; the colours were brighter but transparent. She saw Okoloye waving at her from a distance. Tears streaming down her face, she ran to him. A chasm opened up between her and Okoloye. The more she ran, the wider it got. Just before the darkness consumed her, she heard the voice of the only man she had ever loved. 

“You don’t belong here.” 

Ajja smelt life before she even opened her eyes. She smelt it on the dusty ground of the cave and the clean smell of the streams. She opened her eyes slowly. The weight of age was gone. Her soul no longer felt too heavy for her body. The cave looked different. The lake of fire was gone, and its place was a stream of sparkling water. She clambered to her knees and crawled slowly to one of the springs, and sure enough, she had changed. She was young. Gone were the body aches, wrinkles, and drooping breasts. She felt stronger. Her braids were jet black once more and tumbled around her shoulders, their curly ends grazing her dark nipples. Standing slowly, she noticed all the spirits were there. Her surprise left her in one sentence. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Blood has been given for blood,” whispered the goddess of the air. “Life has brought forth life. The sins of the old have been erased, but the wisdom of the grey remains.” 

The cave was filled with sounds of hooves, grunts, and growls as a Boar and a Tigress entered the cave. They were three times the size of normal animals. Fear enveloped Ajja once again. Was this another test? The Tigress approached her first, carrying a tiger cub gently in her mouth by the scruff of its tiny neck. Two canines extended well past her jaw, making her look all the more ferocious and imposing. She dropped the cub at Ajja’s feet and bowed slightly. 

“Mother, behold your son,” came the angry voice of the god of fire as the cub ran to Ajja. Ajja hid her disappointment behind a shaky smile as she held on to the cub’s furry mass.

Next, the boar approached, the wobbly-footed piglet grunting softly beside her. 

“Mother, behold your son,” rumbled the god of the earth as the grunting piglet hobbled towards Ajja. 

The biggest pool gurgled, and from it emerged an enormous crocodile. A little hatchling slithered between its exposed teeth. It stopped a few feet away from Ajja, and the hatchling crawled out and made its way to Ajja. 

“Mother, behold your son,” came the smooth voice of the goddess of water. Ajja held the slimy child to her breast before placing it with its brothers. She stared dejectedly at her odd brood, a new pain slicing at her chest. 

The bird screeched behind her, and she turned. It was a golden eagle. It was about ten feet tall and had serpentine eyes that flashed with each movement of its head. The bird opened its wings and the little eaglet half flew and half ran to Ajja, its serpentine tongue zipping in and out of its beak in delight. She opened her arms and hugged it, breathing in its familiar avian scent and the soft feel of its feathers. 

“Mother, behold your son,” whispered the goddess of the air as softly as the air around them. 

This was all a mess, thought Ajja sadly. The gods, sensing her sorrow, spoke. 

“Nature has deemed you worthy to care for her children, one for each of the four market days. Your womb has held no child, but your heart is that of a mother. You understand sacrifice, pain, commitment, and optimism. Lessons nature tries to teach your kind with each harvest of yams, each change of season, and each drop of rain after a spell of drought. You shall never age again. In the race against time, you will always win. The fires of transformation have made it so. Your children shall become human when you get to the village. But you should never look back at them on your journey down the mountain; else they would remain as they are.” 

Ajja left happily with her brood screeching, grunting, and growling behind her. With each step she took, she imagined her babies transforming: hooves becoming legs, paws becoming pudgy arms, feathers becoming skin, and tails becoming bottoms. Joy flared in her breasts at this thought as she sprang down, down the mountain. If only the villagers could see her now! As she trudged down, she named her young and blessed them. 

The cub she called Ogbuagu, after the king of warriors. 

The piglet she called Ikenga, after the god of Iron and determination. 

The hatchling Aguiyi, after the king of the sea. 

The eaglet she named Ugobueze, as a reminder that the eagle was the king of the air. 

Halfway down the mountain, Ajja’s joy turned to worry. The children were still making sounds that were not necessarily human. Were they not transforming fast enough? Worry mounted as they came nearer and nearer to the foot of the mountain. When she took her first step on level ground, she turned to look at her children for the first time since their descent. 

From his shoulders down to his feet, Ogbuagu was human. His skin was the same soft orange of smeared palm oil. Faint brown stripes slashed across his tangy skin. But his head, with its whiskers and the extended incisors reaching past his jaw, was that of a tiger. 

Just like his brother, Ikenga, was human from his neck down to his ankles, with an enormous tail hanging between his legs. His legs ended in sturdy hooves, and his skin was the rich colour of mahogany. His face looked the most human of the lot, with soft brown childlike eyes and full lashes, but the lower part of his face ended in tusks and a wet snout. 

Aguiyi didn’t look half-human like his brothers. He looked more animal than human. He had the body of a man-child, but his skin was the colour of green ugu, and his body covered in hard scales. With his sturdy tail and his powerful snout, Ikenga was more crocodile than human. 

Ajja smothered her sobs on the back of her hand as she took Ugobueze in. He still had his wings and reptilian eyes, and his head and neck were still covered in soft downy feathers. 

The gods had tricked her. 

For the first time in seven days, Ajja screamed her frustration. The scream shook the forests and the mountains. The winds whooshed plaintively in reply, echoing the memories of many such screams. They understood. Sometimes, the gods played with the lives of men for their own entertainment. Pestilence and famine here, some half-human children there, and the world once more became interesting for them to watch. She stared dejectedly at her children as they clustered up to her for warmth. Sighing, she carried them home to her little hut at the edge of the forest, vowing to teach them to hate everything the gods stood for.” 

My last words trailed into the silence. A few ears tuned to my story sighed sadly as they processed Ajja’s pain. I wonder what happened to her. Had she found her peace at Awgu?

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