forehead.
That evening, though, Papa-Nnukwu felt well enough to get up for dinner, and the knots on Aunty Ifeoma's face loosened a little. We had leftover ofe nsala and garri, pounded to a sticky softness by Obiora. 'Eating garri at night is not right,' Amaka said. But she was not scowling as she usually did when she complained; instead, she had that fresh smile that showed the gap in her teeth, the smile she seemed to always have when Papa-Nnukwu was around. 'It rests heavy in your stomach when you eat it at night.'
Papa-Nnukwu clucked. 'What did our fathers eat at night in their time, gbo? They ate pure cassava. Garri is for you modern ones. It does not even have the flavor of pure cassava.'
'But you have to eat all of yours, anyway, nna anyi.' Aunty Ifeoma reached over and plucked a morsel from Papa-Nnukwu's garri; she dug a hole in it with one finger, inserted a white medicine tablet, and then molded the morsel into a smooth ball. She placed it on Papa-Nnukwu's plate. She did the same with four other tablets. 'He will not take the medicine unless I do this,' she said in English. 'He says tablets are bitter, but you should taste the kola nuts he chews happily-they taste like bile.'
My cousins laughed. 'Morality, as well as the sense of taste, is relative,' Obiora said.
'Eh? What are you saying about me, gbo?' Papa-Nnukwu asked.
'Nna anyi, I want to see you swallow them,' Aunty Ifeoma said.
Papa-Nnukwu dutifully picked up each molded morsel, dunked it in soup, and swallowed. When the five were gone, Aunty Ifeoma asked him to drink some water so the tablets could break down and start to help his body heal. He took a gulp of water and set the glass down. 'When you become old, they treat you like a child,' he muttered.
Just then the TV made a scratchy sound like pouring dry sand on paper and the lights went off. A blanket of darkness covered the room. 'Hei,' Amaka groaned. 'This is not a good time for NEPA to take light. I wanted to watch something on TV'.
Obiora moved through the darkness to the two kerosene lamps that stood at the corner of the room and lit them. I smelled the kerosene fumes almost immediately; they made my eyes water and my throat itch. 'Papa- Nnukwu, tell us a folk story, then, just like we do in Abba,' Obiora said. 'It is better than TV anyway.'
'O di mma. But first, you have not told me how those people in the TV climb into it.'
My cousins laughed. It was something Papa-Nnukwu said often to make them laugh. I could tell from the way they started to laugh even before he finished speaking. 'Tell us the story of why the tortoise has a cracked shell!' Chima piped up.
'I would like to know why the tortoise features so much in our people's stories,' Obiora said in English.
'Tell us the story of why the tortoise has a cracked shell!' Chima repeated.
Papa-Nnukwu cleared his throat. 'Long ago, when animals talked and lizards were few, there was a big famine in the land of the animals. Farms dried up and the soil cracked. Hunger killed many of the animals and the ones left behind did not even have the strength to dance the mourning dance at funerals. One day all the male animals had a meeting to decide what could be done, before hunger wiped out the whole village.
'They all staggered to the meeting, bony and weak. Even Lion's roar was now like the whine of a mouse. Tortoise could hardly carry his shell. It was only Dog that looked well. His fur shone with good health and you could not see the bones under his skin because they were padded with flesh. The animals all asked Dog how he remained so well in the midst of famine. 'I have been eating feces like I always do,' Dog answered.
'The other animals used to laugh at Dog because he and his family were known to eat feces. None of the other animals could imagine themselves eating feces. Lion took control of the meeting and said, 'Since we cannot eat feces like Dog, we must think of a way to feed ourselves.'
'The animals thought long and hard until Rabbit suggested that all the animals kill their mothers and eat them. Many of the animals disagreed with this, they still remembered the sweetness of their mothers' breast milk. But finally they all agreed that it was the best alternative, since they would all die anyway if nothing was done.'
'I could never eat Mommy,' Chima said, giggling.
'It might not be a good idea, that tough skin,' Obiora said.
'The mothers did not mind being sacrificed,' Papa-Nnukwu continued. 'And so each week a mother was killed and the animals shared the meat. Soon they were all looking well again. Then, a few days before it was time for Dog's mother to be killed, Dog ran out wailing the mourning song for his mother. She had died of the disease. The other animals sympathized with Dog and offered to help bury her. Since she had died of the disease, they could not eat her. Dog refused any help and said he would bury her himself. He was distraught that she would not have the honor of dying like the other mothers who were sacrificed for the village.
'Only a few days later, Tortoise was on his way to his parched farm to see if there were any dried vegetables to be harvested. He stopped to ease himself near a bush, but because the bush was wilted it did not give good cover. He was able to see across the bush and he saw Dog, looking up and singing. Tortoise wondered if perhaps Dog's grief had made him go mad. Why was Dog singing to the sky? Tortoise listened and heard what Dog was singing: 'Nne, Nne, Mother, Mother.'
'Njemanze!' my cousins chorused. 'Nne, Nne, I have come.'
'Njemanze!'
'Nne, Nne, let down the rope. I have come.'
'Njemanze!'
'Tortoise came out then and challenged Dog. Dog admitted that his mother had not really died, that she had gone to the sky where she lived with wealthy friends. It was because she fed him daily from the sky that he looked so well. 'Abomination!' Tortoise bellowed. 'So much for eating feces! Wait until the rest of the village hears what you have done.'
'Of course, Tortoise was as cunning as always. He had no intention of telling the village. He knew that Dog would offer to take him to the sky, too. When Dog did, Tortoise pretended to think about it before accepting. But saliva had already started to run down his cheeks. Dog sang the song again and a rope descended from the sky and the two animals went up.
'Dog's mother was not pleased that her son had brought a friend but she served them well anyway. Tortoise ate like an animal with no home training. He ate almost all of the fufu and onugbu soup and poured a full horn of palm wine down his throat when his mouth was full of food. After the meal they descended the rope. Tortoise told Dog he would tell no one as long as Dog took him to the sky every day until the rains came and the famine ended. Dog agreed-what else could he do? The more Tortoise ate in the sky, the more he wanted, until one day he decided that he would go to the sky by himself so that he would get to eat Dog's portion as well as his. He went to the spot by the dry bush and started singing, mimicking Dog's voice. The rope started to fall. Just then, Dog came by and saw what was happening. Furious, Dog started to sing loudly. 'Nne, Nne, Mother, Mother.'
'Njemanze!' my cousins chorused.
'Nne, Nne, it is not your son coming up.'
'Njemanze!'
'Nne, Nne, cut the rope. It is not your son coming up. It is the cunning Tortoise.'
'Njemanze!'
'Right away, Dog's mother cut the rope and Tortoise, already halfway to the sky, came hurtling down. Tortoise fell on a pile of stones and cracked his shell. To this day, the Tortoise has a cracked shell.'
Chima chortled. 'The tortoise has a cracked shell!'
'Don't you wonder how only Dog's mother got up to the sky in the first place?' Obiora asked in English.
'Or who the wealthy friends in the sky were,' Amaka said.
'Probably ancestors,' Obiora said. My cousins and Jaja laughed, and Papa-Nnukwu laughed, too, a gentle chuckle, as if he had understood the English, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
I watched them and wished that I had joined in chanting the Njernanze! response.
Papa-Nnukwu had woken up before everyone else. He wanted to have breakfast sitting on the verandah, to watch the morning sun. And so Aunty Ifeoma asked Obiora to spread a mat on the verandah, and we all sat and had breakfast with Papa-Nnukwu, listening to him talk about the men who tapped palm wine in the village, how they left at dawn to climb up the palm trees because the trees gave sour wine after the sun rose. I could tell that he missed the village, that he missed seeing those palm trees the men climbed, with a raffia belt encircling them and the tree trunk. Although we had bread and okpa and Bournvita for breakfast, Aunty Ifeoma made a little fufu to
