“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated.”—Maya Angelou.

I

My grandmother had three heads. Her first head was constantly in use for simultaneous calculations—subtracting her losses from gains, multiplying her profits from the market, double-checking her farmland and crops, keeping track of the foodstuff with the highest sales, differentiating between her debtors and creditors, and counting down to the day she would pay what was left of her debt to Ogbuagụ for the borrowed capital that had started her business.

Her second head was filled with Igbo folktales, chanting “Iro” to her children and releasing boisterous laughter as they complained she was teasing them on their fifteenth response of “Ajamtubeleke.” This head swirls at the sound of her children’s cries. She had once threatened the village headmaster because he dared touch her child, and when Obiageli her friend cautioned her saying “Nwanyị atụ egwu, woman that doesn’t fear, why will you confront a whole headmaster eh?” she responded with “Nke ahụ bụ obere ihe, a small thing. I will fight the greatest warrior, I will fly across oceans, and I will move mountains for my children.”

She had six girls, my mother Akunne being her youngest and even though she seldom admitted to it, her favourite. Most evenings when she was done telling them stories, they would gather outside to play moonlight games and my mother would sit in a corner with her. My mother would ask the most random questions and bask in the delight of the most absurd responses my grandmother delivered. One day, my mother’s questions were not random. They were about her father, why she never saw him, why he didn’t live with my grandmother, and where he was from. My grandmother replied with what appeared to be a sad smile and then said, “Onye ajụjụ m, my inquisitive girl, go and play with your sisters, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

She didn’t plan on telling my mother. How could she? Where does one begin to tell her youngest daughter the story of how her intended father absconded the minute she was born? “Nwanyị ọzọ? A girl again? The rumours are true, your womb is cursed,” he had said before storming off, never to return. When she had conceived my mother and broke the news to him, he warned her to pray for her womb and threatened to leave if she birthed a girl for the sixth time. My grandmother had prayed for the opposite. If anything, she wanted to have another girl because she frankly didn’t want him around. He made her life miserable with any chance he got and intensified the misery with every female child she birthed for the past twelve years. Her second head had in fact eradicated any memories of my grandfather and solely concerned itself with catering to her children and providing them the best.

Her third head carried her Nwanyị-Ike Community with effortless grace. People from far and wide knew her as Agụ—the new leader of the women’s community in Umanato. Her fellow members of the community had given her the alias after she went to extreme lengths to provide food and clothing for women and children who had suffered losses from a flood.

After a while, the king, chiefs and other men from different communities in the town began claiming that it was insulting to bear the name “Agụ” as a woman. They called my grandmother at the palace to explain the reason for choosing a man’s title. According to them, it was an alias meant for men. She was a woman, and so they insisted that she must add “Nwanyị” at the back of her name to indicate this.

“Igweeee,” my grandmother said, kneeling on the mat that was placed in front of the king as she waited for him to pat her back with his nza, a sign that meant her greeting had been accepted and she could stand. She scurried across him, not standing beside the chiefs seated on the wooden bench within the palace, nor with his wives on the far end, but with his guards towards the exit of the palace, as a sign of respect. She listened carefully to the chiefs shouting in anger and watched them look at her askance.

“My king, may you live long,” she started, clearing her throat before continuing, “I did not mean for my name to disrespect any man in our town, and surely the women in my community did not either. They only wanted me to bear Agụ because they believed it was fitting for me as a good and strong leader of our Nwanyị-Ike Community,” she said.

“Mechie ọnụ gị, nwanyị! Shut up, woman!” Chief Ojukwu thundered.

“It is not done anywhere! A woman must answer what makes her a woman. You cannot be called Agụ, a naghị eme ya ebe ọ bụla,” said Chief Nkemjika.

“Gbam!” Chief Obi concurred.

“Go to any town, it is not so. It has never been done,” Chief Ugo added.

At first, my grandmother refused to dance along to the beat of their drums, “With respect, I speak to my chiefs and my king, but I have not done anything wrong. The name was given to me by my community,” she said, and  stayed firm, explaining that her name carried no ill intent; it was simply a name of praise bestowed upon her by women in her community. After numerous back-and-forths with the chiefs, the king finally spoke.

“Listen, woman, you will drop the name at once,” he said.

My grandmother was resilient. Even after the king had spoken, leaving a smile on the faces of the chiefs, she did what no one had dared to do, she countered him.

“Igweeeee, may you live long,” she knelt again to greet before speaking, “I cannot drop a name that I did not give myself. Perhaps the king will need a town crier to pass the message across to the rest of the town because everyone has taken to calling me Agụ, not just the women of my community. Merely asking that I drop the name will not do much,” she said, still kneeling since the king had not patted her back with his nza. In truth, he was too stunned to do so. When she realised his nza did not touch her back, she saw it as an opportunity to continue speaking,

“And if you will not find fault in my question my chiefs, how, if I may ask, is my name disrespectful to any man in our town?” she asked, staring directly at Chief Ojukwu.

“Ọ na-ajụ m? Is she asking me?” Chief Ojukwu tapped Chief Obi, asking him in bewilderment.

“She couldn’t be.” Chief Obi replied him. 

The king’s wives exchanged glances in shock, one of them whispering how she could not even speak in front of the king and chiefs that way. The king immediately instructed his guards to move down to my grandmother’s shop and destroy it, as he did not want to be seen as weak.

After this instruction, my grandmother realised she could not help her community from a place of want. For this reason, she grudgingly obliged and was pardoned by the king; afterwards, she was referred to as “Agụ-Nwanyị” instead. This was the first of many problems the men of Umunato would have with her.

*

Years later, Umunato saw another flood attack that was bigger than any they had witnessed. They lost men, women, and children and had their crops wiped; they were greatly helped by the foreseeing nature of Agụ-Nwanyị and her community who had stacked up heaps of foodstuff before the attack. So when calm came, and a chieftaincy title was to be bestowed, the people wanted Agụ-Nwanyị.

The news of the people’s desire for Agụ-Nwanyị reached the members of the chieftaincy council and they were furious. “This woman again,” Chief Obi said, raging. They roamed from place to place, shouting amongst themselves, blaming each other for allowing such ridiculous ideas to take root in the minds of the people.

“It is forbidden, a disgrace!” Chief Ojukwu said, pacing the king’s palace to perfectly display his fury.

“N’ezie, ọ bu ihe-arụ, of course, it is an abomination,” Chief Nkemjika concurred.

They went around expressing their disapproval and resentment towards my grandmother and the matter at hand but were left in shock and disbelief as the king spoke in her favour.

“Rules exist to be broken and it is in one day that new laws are made. If my people think she is worthy, then I would like to hear from her,” the king said.

“But Igwe, this is unheard of,” Chief Ojukwu said.

“Unless the Ofo rejects her, it won’t be as of tomorrow.”

“Igwe anaghị eme ya eme, it is not done. It is … “

“I have spoken and it is final,” the king interrupted.

“Igweeeeee,” Chief Ojukwu prostrated as he chanted “Long live the king,” with a well-hidden sneer and immediately sent an errand man out to inform my grandmother and her women’s community of the king’s summoning.

My mother was heavily against this news, and so were her sisters. She begged my grandmother to “respectfully decline” the king’s summoning, so we could be happy and have our normal lives. She told my grandmother she had a bad feeling, that the people may want this now but would retract their words once she has that title. She told her that every Umunato man would see her as a threat and she would become a public target. My grandmother had promised to put her thoughts and feelings into consideration before making a decision. But when Obiageli, her friend and other members of the Nwanyị-Ike Community listed the pros of becoming a chief, what it could mean for her daughters’ futures, and what it would yield for women in Umanato and beyond, it was an easy decision.

My grandmother died that night. It was cold and dark, but she had been burning up; she lay on the thatched mat in the corner of her hut, an oriọna lit above her head by Akwa, her fourth daughter. The room was dim, and the shadows from the oriọna played on the rough, cracked walls of my grandmother’s hut.

“Mama o zuola nu, biko,” Uli, her first daughter, cried, begging my grandmother to get better as she fanned her feverish body with the wooden hand fan she held.

My mother, Akunne, lay beside her, dipping torn pieces of a wrapper into a bowl filled with warm water and massaging my grandmother’s forehead.

Three of her other daughters had gone to Ifedi town to fetch the medicine woman and would not be returning until the next day.

After a while, my grandmother requested that they stop watching her like a hawk and go to sleep. Reluctantly, they decided to take turns watching her in her room for the night.

“Can I watch her first? I will come and wake you when I’m sleepy,” my mother asked.

“Ngwa nu, come and help me move her from the mat,” Uli responded, agreeing.

At midnight, my mother awoke to a coughing, choking sound; it was my grandmother, foaming uncontrollably from her mouth.

“Nne m anaghịzi eku ume, Umunato eee! Somebody come o!” she screamed at the top of her voice, calling the attention of her other sisters who came running from their huts.

Akwa bent down beside my grandmother, tears crawling down the corners of her eyes as she repeatedly wiped the foam from her mouth. Uli on the other hand sent my mother to go and look for help; she did it intentionally, knowing already that my grandmother was dead, and not wanting my mother to be present when they confirmed it.

It was rumoured that the Ofo only sought people with good spirits and since she was dead, it had rejected her, and she did not have one. When the news of her death spread, Chief Ojukwu and other chiefs rejoiced unceasingly, singing clamorous praises to their chi for not letting a woman become a chief for the first time in Umunato.

II

My mother had two heads. Her first head was dominated by agony. Merely days after her mother Agụ-Nwanyị’s death, Chief Ojukwu’s oldest son, Ndu, was given the chieftaincy title that had been meant for my grandmother. He passed the Ofo collection, returned hearty the next day, and was named Chief Ndu of Umunato. The king had claimed that this made one thing clear—women leaders would soil the land. He passed a decree that all women communities, including the Nwanyị-Ike, be dissolved at once, and that no woman dare start one from his reign henceforth. The news of this decree spread to other towns, prompting their rulers to emulate it as a demonstration of power. My mother wasn’t fazed by this, her ears falling deaf to the decree as she intended to start her own community.

One night, she made up her mind and gathered her sisters and two friends to tell them of her plan, “Umunnem, biko, let us be the Nwanyị-Ike Community. This is the only way to remember Mama,” she pleaded. 

“Akunne, I’m not very sure about this. It is risky,” Uli said with her arms tightly crossed over her chest, and her unibrow furrowing; they did that whenever she was scared or worried.

That night, they were all seated in a small circle in my grandmother’s hut. My mother turned to Akwa for a better response but caught her chewing nervously on her bottom lip, her eyes, glancing at the door with every passing minute as if someone would come in at any moment. She turned the other way to catch the others looking equally uneasy, and so suddenly began to rethink her plan.

A few minutes of silence passed before their eldest sister, Uli, finally broke it, saying, “Aku is right, this is something that would honour Mama’s memory. Let us try.”

Since that day, they would always meet once in two months and only discuss in voices lower than whispers. Nonetheless, the community grew as time passed.

*

Years after the decree, the king fell ill and was close to death. On his dying bed, he asked his wives to send an errand man to summon my mother. When she received the news, fear crippled her. She refused to go and immediately informed her sisters and members of the community.

 The plan was to disappear before the king requested her presence again; she believed he had discovered the Nwanyị-Ike Community and was out to hunt them down. She couldn’t let that happen.

The next day, she brought out all the money she had stashed in a brown bottle that blended into the walls of her own hut.

“Hei, Aku! Where did you get such huge amounts?” Akwa asked in surprise.

“Akwa, now is not the time for questions. Please, go with Oge and Uli.”

“What about you? Will we see you?”

“Don’t worry, I have discussed with Uli. We will all meet sometime later. Just go, chi ga-edu unu,” my mother responded, hugging Akwa tightly and releasing her as tears started to form in her eyes.

Word had spread about the Nwanyị-Ike Community and my mother had guards and men of the town searching for her in a matter of days, but it did not matter. At that time, she had made enough plans to flee and had made sure her sisters and other members disappeared discreetly and were dispersed across several towns as well.

The king died weeks later; regardless, his successor placed a bounty on my mother’s head and that of every woman that had been amongst the Nwanyị-Ike Community, clearly stating that whoever found and brought us, dead or alive, would be greatly compensated.

My mother was twenty-three years old when she fled Umanato town, this was the last time she saw any of her sisters. She took a new name, started a different life, and kept a low profile in her new town Rumuokoro. This arrangement worked perfectly for ten years until she ran into a woman who claimed to know her. In truth, she recognised said woman as the sixth and youngest wife of the late king of Umunato.

The woman introduced herself as Olamma and promised she meant no trouble. She later come to tell my mother that she was banished from Umunato as soon as the late king, her husband, died. When my mother asked why, Olamma’s response nearly sent her to an early grave.

The late king had loved and trusted her the most. Before he died, he confided in her and told her that his conscience pricked him for his part in Agụ-Nwanyị’s death and he only hoped his chi accepted him regardless. He had heard the people chant Agụ-Nwanyị’s name following her involvement in providing food after the flood, and he knew they would want her as a part of the chieftaincy council. While the chiefs raged and raked, he devised a plan to handle the situation. According to Olamma, he would always repeat, “I will never be remembered as a weak king who let a woman lead.” He had called Ojukwu and Nkemjika, as they were his most valued members of the chieftaincy council and let them in on the plan.

“The Ofo will not reject her, as we know, so it is during the calabash drink that we will strike,” the king said.

“I will sprinkle the poison personally, then when she goes to sleep, whatever happens, was the Ofo warning us of her evil, not so?” Ojukwu agreed.

“Igweee, ogologo ndụ,” Nkemjika smiled, picking up his cup of palm wine and gulping down.

Olamma concluded the story, telling my mother, “That was why I was banished. My heart couldn’t bear knowing that and lying with him. I threatened to tell people,” She paused as if to recollect properly, then continued “I thought he would kill me as well for daring to threaten him but he declared that I would be banished instead. Nnem, I am so sorry.” At that point, all my mother saw was red. A rush of pain surged through her body and a flood of tears streamed down her eyes. She instantly blamed herself even when she knew there was not much she could have done. She carried this feeling of regret around for a long time; perhaps if she had begged my grandmother profusely, she would have never considered attending the chieftaincy ceremony. She would still be alive.

*

Her second head was filled with the memories she shared with me. My mother did not marry, she did not see the need. She never knew her father and did not know a single male figure that was worth admiring. Every male presence in her life had been a negative one and had reinforced her belief that she still lived in an era where men sought to trample on women, preventing them from living their lives to the fullest. If there was one thing she wanted to do, it was to give her child, or children, the fullest life possible, free from the oppressive influences she had known. Because of this, she worked hard and planned hard and when she finally was able to adopt me, she loved hard.

III

I have one head; my only priority is to uphold the standards that my mother and my grandmother before me set.

My mother adopted me at sixty and gave me a great childhood filled with love, although our neighbours, her friend Olamma, and the meddlesome women at New Rumuokoro market would often beg to differ on this definition of love. The last time we visited the market was on a Friday; I was nine and had just graduated from Primary School. My mother had promised to pervade the house with excess foodstuff and provisions once I wrote my final term exam in class 6; she did not go back on her word even after my report card had read 3rd Position, a let-down from my usual 1st Position. Rather, she sang my praises to all who cared to listen and was prepared to fight Adanna, our neighbour whom we met at the market when she called me ‘spoiled’ that very Friday.

“Akunne, I heard your daughter came third this session, hmm nnem let me just tell you what nobody in the compound wants to tell you o,” Adanna said immediately after exchanging pleasantries with my mother at Nwunye Oga’s shop—a regular spot at the entrance of New Rumuokoro market, where Nwunye Oga, a well-known vendor, sold the best and newly advertised provisions at great prices.

When my mother nodded in acknowledgement, Adanna took it as a sign to continue: “And I am only telling you because I like your daughter o.” She paused, giving me a disdainful look as I counted the sachets of milk contained in the row I held and kept it aside to look for packets of sweets and biscuits. She continued, “Akunne, your daughter is spoiled. Everybody is saying it. You are spoiling this girl and you might not like the outcome tomorrow.”

“Thank you very much Adanna o, daalụ, anụgo m,” my mother responded in a manner that clearly suggested she was done with the conversation, but Adanna continued, this time backed by Nwunye Oga, the owner of the shop.

“How can a girl move from first position to third and you take her out to celebrate and even come to the market to buy her sweets and provisions? Hian!” Adanna said.

“Ezi okwu o, I didn’t want to say anything but Aku, you’re my customer and also my friend, ọ dị mma ịdọ nwata aka ná ntị” Nwunye Oga added in support of Adanna.

My mother, being the calm person she had become in her older years, continued to reply softly, explaining that it wasn’t easy to be amongst the top five in school at all. She even jokingly added, “My daughter has been coming first place since, let others come first small, next session she will continue, isn’t it? Eh, ezigbo m?” She asked, calling out to me with our term of endearment ‘Ezigbo m’, which was how I addressed her as well. I smiled whenever I heard it. I loved it when she called me her dearest.

It was as though our tiny exchange and show of affection made Adanna wince. For this, she intentionally crossed the line with her next statement, trying to hurt my mother’s feelings: “This is how some children end up being so spoiled that they kill their own parents, ma Chineke ekwela. Maybe if she had a father, he would have disciplined her.”

My mother lost her cool at the mention of ‘father’. She told Adanna and Nwunye Oga to mind their businesses. She started packing her bags to leave, so I took it as a cue to return the sachets of milk and packets of biscuits I had carefully selected from Nwunye Oga’s shop. “Mgbe ị mụrụ nwa nke gị, zụọ ya otú ị chọrọ, train yours how you choose when you have a child,” she added before we stormed off.

My mother would later have another disagreement regarding me with Olamma, who had become very good friends and business partners with her throughout the years after narrating the incident about my grandmother. By eavesdropping, I heard parts of their conversation.

“Akunne, so you want to pack all the money you have made from your business to send your daughter to Obodo oyibo? Hian, nwannem Nwanyị, it is not wise. Why not send her to school around here?” Olamma said, baffled.

“For safety reasons Ola,” my mother responded.

“Aku, forget safety. It’s been years, there’s no one after you anymore and we both know it. I personally think you are looking for a reason to spoil that child more than you already have. And again I say, it is not wise.”

“Ngwanu, tell me, what about my decision is unwise?”

Olamma stretched out her body on the chair inside my mother’s bedroom, getting comfortable. “You can use this large sum of money to buy several pieces of land here, or even venture into many more businesses. Also, if she goes to the University nearby like my own children, you can keep an eye on her.”

“Olamma I’m over sixty, anything I do from now on, I want to do for my daughter. Even if I buy land, they will be for her, not so? Bia, if you even give me your own share of the money right now, I will add it and give everything to ezigbo m”

“Me? Give you? Chiekwela o, God forbid,” Olamma said, smiling as she eventually gave up the conversation and moved on to another topic.

That night, after Olamma left, I made sure to sit with my mother and reassure her. I walked into her room and lay beside her, my head on her lap, sniffing her peach-scented cologne.  “Ezigbo m,” I said, wiping the tears that had begun welling before continuing, “I am not spoiled,” my voice was breaking, but I continued, “I do not know why people think I am,” I stretched my hands to hold hers and intertwined them with mine before finishing with “I am grateful to have a mother like you.”

“Hei Chi m! I didn’t know you heard me and Olamma,” my mother said, releasing her hands to clean my eyes with her dress. “If people want to say I am spoiling you, no problem. Let them also spoil their own children.” She wiped my tears. “Ngwa hichaa anya gị, let us go and eat and talk about the University you would like to go to.”

*

When my mother turned eighty-six, we celebrated the opening of the women’s health clinic she founded, which catered to the health needs of women. I had concluded my studies as a Psychiatric Nurse and was ready to contribute to her clinic which was named in honour of her and my grandmother’s community—Nwanyị-Ike Community Clinic. It was dedicated to women’s well-being, offering affordable and accessible medical services to women and their children located in that town.

*

I buried my mother at ninety-one. The day she died was the day of my Inspire The Young Conference. I was to speak at this conference and she had rehearsed with me several times but I still had cold feet.

“Don’t worry ezigbo m, you will do well. I’ll even come and watch you that day,” she had smiled, encouraging me in her now low raspy voice. I smiled back, almost tearing up at the sight of the fine lines that enveloped her tender cheeks. I did not like to admit it, but my mother was old. Much more tired than she used to be; much less active than she used to be. And even though I wanted more than anything for her to watch me speak on stage for the first time and encourage younger women, I had a strong feeling she would not.

My feeling was wrong. The Saturday for my conference came and my mother woke up heartier than ever. She wore her favourite blue boubou dress, the one I gave her four years ago. She said good things happened whenever she wore this dress and so it would serve as my good-luck charm for today.

 “Daalụ ezigbo m,” I said, smiling and hugging her, inhaling her peach-scented cologne, which was faintly tinged with a mix of minty dusting powder. She had grown fond of applying it on her cheeks and neck, always instructing Pamela, the nurse who helped look after her, to do so.

That was the last time I hugged my mother. Pamela had wheeled her out of the hall immediately after I was done speaking, but I had assumed she only needed a bit of fresh air. My phone rang a few minutes later, and Pamela said that she has rushed my mother to the hospital. Pain surged through my body. I pushed through the crowd until I reached the big door boldly marked ‘EXIT’.

As I stepped out of the hall, I remembered her smile and remembered what she had said about her dress earlier today; perhaps she was somewhat prepared. Perhaps this was why she wore her lucky blue dress, and the “good thing” that would happen for her today was reuniting with my grandmother.

About the Author:

Tehila Okagbue is a Nigerian writer who recently co-founded Lady Ink Society—a community for female creative writers. She has enjoyed writing since childhood because it lets her express thoughts and imagination through words. When she’s not writing, she’s styling hair, watching reality TV shows, or doing some bathroom singing.

*Feature image by Jr Korpa on Unsplash