Sacrifice

‎ ‎ ‎It was already night. The sun had set, and darkness had settled thick over the village. One could hardly see the faces of people passing by. Everyone had retired to their huts. ‎ ‎Then the gong sounded. ‎ ‎GONG! GONG! ‎ ‎"I greet you all, the great nine villages of Omatu!" the announcer shouted at the top of his voice. He struck his gong twice. "The traditional dance begins on the next Eke day! I greet you all!" ‎ ‎He hit the gong several more times and moved on. The announcer was Obiora, a man in his seventies. He wore only a wrapper tied around his waist, his feet bare and dusty from the earth. Yet town criers like him were treated with deep respect across all nine villages. ‎ ‎A small fire was lit in the open compound as children gathered for moonlight stories. Nwoye sat at the center, poking at the fire with a stick, waiting impatiently for the children to assemble. She rose and went into her husband's hut to take his plate. ‎ ‎Her husband, Okeke, lay weak on a bamboo bed. He had been sick for months, his body thin and his breathing heavy. ‎ ‎As Nwoye gathered the calabash and turned to leave, Okeke called her. He coughed painfully as he struggled to sit up. ‎ ‎"Nwoye," he whispered. ‎ ‎"Yes, my lord," she answered, without looking back. ‎ ‎"Where is Oluoma?" ‎ ‎"She is here, my lord." ‎ ‎"I have not seen her since sunset. Have you sent her to the forest again to fetch firewood?" ‎ ‎Nwoye frowned, her voice sharp with irritation. ‎ ‎"My lord, what is wrong with her going to fetch firewood? After all, she is the oldest child in this compound." ‎ ‎"What time is it?" Okeke asked, his voice rising despite his weakness. "One can barely see at all, and you sent a young girl to the forest at this hour, eh? Why didn't you send Chima instead? Why must it always be her?" He broke into a fit of coughing. ‎ ‎Worried, Nwoye called out, "Nduka, bring water for your father!" ‎ ‎A few seconds later, Nduka returned, her face scrunched in annoyance. "Mama, Oluoma refused to bring Papa the water." ‎ ‎"Is Oluoma back from the forest?" ‎ ‎"Yes, Mama." ‎ ‎Anger flared in Nwoye's chest. She stormed out of the hut toward the inner compound. Oluoma had just dropped the heavy bundle of firewood from her head, her shoulders aching, her feet sore. Before she could even catch her breath, Nwoye descended on her like a wild beast, beating and scolding her. ‎ ‎That same night, Oluoma was sent to the stream. ‎ ‎"You must fill these two drums!" Nwoye shouted, pointing at two large clay pots. "You will not sleep in this house until they are full!" ‎ ‎With tears stinging her eyes and a pot balanced on her head, Oluoma walked into the darkness. ‎ ‎On her way, she stopped at the lonely cemetery where her mother was buried. She knelt by the small mound and broke down. Only her tiny, trembling voice could be heard in the night as she wept bitterly, her body shaking with pain and loneliness. ‎ ‎Her mother had been Okeke's first wife. After giving birth to Oluoma, she could not conceive again. Okeke later married Nwoye as a second wife. ‎ ‎When Oluoma's mother died of illness, everything changed. As Oluoma grew taller and more beautiful, Nwoye's hatred for her grew too. In Nwoye's eyes, Okeke still favoured Oluoma more than her own children, and that jealousy burned like fire in her heart. ‎ ‎As Oluoma cried, she felt a gentle pat on her shoulder. ‎ ‎She turned in shock, her heart pounding. An old man in his early fifties stood behind her, his face full of concern. ‎ ‎"Good night," she greeted quickly, standing up and wiping her tears with the back of her hand, embarrassed to be seen crying. ‎ ‎"Good night, my daughter," he replied softly. "Why are you crying, my daughter? What has made your heart so heavy?" ‎ ‎"It is nothing, Nna anyi," she said in a shaky voice. ‎ ‎She picked up her pot to leave, but the old man gently held her back. ‎ ‎"It is not right to walk away from your elder like that," he said in a deep, kind voice. ‎ ‎"Forgive me, Nna anyi," she pleaded, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Her eyes kept darting toward the path. "Please, Nna anyi, I need to go to the stream to fetch water." ‎ ‎"To the stream?!" he exclaimed, shocked. "At this time of the night? What will a young girl like you be doing at the stream by this hour?" ‎ ‎"Nna anyi, you will not understand," she said, bending to slap an insect off her leg. Her voice was tired and defeated. "If I do not return with water, I cannot enter that compound." ‎ ‎Without waiting, she lifted her pot and disappeared into the dark. The old man tried to follow her path, but the night was too dark to see clearly. He stopped under a large mango tree, confused about which way she had gone. ‎ ‎"I do not understand why a young girl would be sent to the stream at this time of night," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in worry. "I wonder which family she comes from." ‎ ‎And with a heavy heart, he turned and headed home.