Abolition

The Anglo-Aro war was started “to put a stop to slave dealing and the slave trade generally with a view to the Slave Dealing Proclamation No. 5 of 1901 being enforced throughout the entire territories as from first of January next; to abolish the Juju hierarchy of the Aro tribe, which by superstition and fraud causes much injustice among the coast tribes generally and is opposed to the establishment of Government. The power of the priesthood is also employed in obtaining natives for sale as slaves and it is essential to finally break it; to open up the country of the entire Aro to civilization; to induce the natives to engage in legitimate trade; to introduce a currency in lieu of slaves, brass rods, and other forms of native currency and to facilitate trade transactions; to eventually establish a labour market as a substitute to the present system of slavery.”

- Sir Ralph Moore

Akannam never heard these words, but he carried their weight in water, brass, and firewood. Everyday. He woke up before the sun rose, and - more importantly - before his father woke. He hung his night wrapper on his waist, rubbed his eyes, and felt around for his basin. The ball of his palm crashed into the thin layer of coarse sand on the ground. His fingers trod through the dirt, folding sweat, dew and earth into his fingernails like ice cream into a scoop. He soon flicked the hollow basin and, suddenly and unfortunately awake, picked it up and made his way to the stream.

Akannam was still very bad at fetching water. His father bickered constantly about this. For one, the boy’s basin was broken and he did not seem to notice. Just the day before, his father had beaten him: 

“This is not the time to be a boy,” his father remarked in Igbo. “Do you not see what is happening outside? Did you not hear what happened to your friend Uchenna and his father Ejiofo?” A short, painful silence. “Open your eyes. This is war. Boys cannot survive these times. You hear? Akannam, do you hear what I am saying?”

Akannam’s father was called Isiawele - good head. He had a buff, rigid personality that hung like a hardwood cape over his lanky frame. Isiawele had been a farmer in a nearby village when he was young. Like most others in Igboland, his village was constantly and heavily pressed by British forces under Sir Ralph Moore. Isiawele’s hometown fought hard, but fell as its leaders were captured and publicly hanged. Isiawele moved to Arochukwu and enlisted in the army. He was a pitiful fighter and was quickly and quietly dismissed from battle. However, Isiawele understood the strategy his hometown had implemented, and Eze Aro was deeply interested in it. The King consulted with Isiawele every week until - like an eager lecturer clutches his lesson plan - Eze Aro planted Isiawele in his armpit.

The cool dew settled between the boy’s long toes as he walked. He moved fast to avoid crossing paths with the venomous town gossips; his mother, Adaobi had recently disappeared. Isiawele suspected she had kept a lover. He would not go after her. Akannam would take up his mother’s duties: fetching water, cooking meals, cleaning the home. He would not whine or complain, he would never speak of his mother; he would act like a man, or both he and his father would not survive.

The air was humid, but the village spirit was dry. Fathers left in the morning and seldom returned. Nearby towns had fallen. You could see the foundations of each home knocking like knees on nervous teens - mothers hiding their daughters away, fathers pushing eleven-year-old boys so aggressively to master the kutlas. Akannam was lucky his mother had left - cooking was better than fighting this hopeless war. 

Days went by slowly. Everyone grew lean.

Akannam woke up another day. Before the sun, before his father. He shoved the small basin under his armpit and dragged the big one on the ground behind him. He had just learnt to watch for snakes - a few days ago he was almost bitten. His father slapped him when Akannam told him:

“Other boys are fighting on the front lines to keep our land, and you are here stepping on baby snakes! What kind of nonsense!” His father’s chest had swollen like a turkey’s. “You have seen people’s spirits. People are lean. If you die, you are killing us. Me, my work. You are killing this village. Our neighbors. Arochukwu. You are killing all of us.”

Akannam’s face had bruised from the slap. He could see it in his reflection at the stream. Right across his face, ear-to-ear, like a juxtaposed smile. The skin was bluing in a way that it oddly blended into the sky’s blue in the reflection. He sat in the stream, all but his neck and head submerged. Akannam caught an orange tint in the corner of his eye, like the sky was on fire. 

The orange glimmered under a sick grey. It was just a small cloud. Then another, then another, until Akannam heard the first of the screams. He knew. Distinctly. Every voice, every curse, he knew what was happening as if he was between the cold machettis. Akannam drew himself underwater. He held himself there like a man. Like the man his father had beaten him into. He dug his fingernails into the clay bed until, like Aro and much of its history, he sank.