The Plea

The boy stood barefooted before the elders of his village. A remarkably thin and bronze complexioned youth, he was tall for his seventeen years and cursed by the devil with an effeminate kind of handsomeness. Blood gushed from a wound under what remained of his nose. A strip of black fabric knotted at both sides covered his privates. The wise old men of the kingdom; all naked, save for red damask wrappers tied around their waists, sat on low wooden stools. Their sombre expressions and a noticeable absence of either kolanut or palm wine bore witness to the nature of the boy’s crime. They had decided on his guilt, and this was judgement—what to do with him and how to do it. The mutilated, decaying remains of his father lay exposed on a dirty brown sack. No one recoiled from the stench. To his right, his mother, stripped bare, sprawled on the sand, pleading for mercy. Her long, intricately woven braids were scraped off and her breasts hung loose like full buckets of water. They plastered her with ashes from her head to her toes. Three women stayed behind her, dispensing slaps whenever her crying caused a distraction. Pa Osagie; the most senior in the group cleared his throat. Satisfied everything was in order, he commanded: “Speak Nosakhare.” The accused ran his palms over his chest. “It happened during the early hours of Oba market day. Baba’s shouting woke me. At first, it sounded as if he and mama were having their normal arguments, but his voice grew louder and angrier. When I got to their room, I saw him squeezing her neck. I grabbed his legs, begging him to free her. She was making strange sounds. He colour began to change. He said we wanted to kill him with juju but he will ruin our plans.” “Lies, Oghogho,” Pa Osamuyi yelled at the boy’s mother who seemed to have an unlimited supply of tears. “Tell us what you did to my brother or I swear, the gods will strike you down by nightfall. You killed him before he could take yams to Idahosa’s house. Because your son has been testing the daughter. Eating from his father’s plate. Coveting his own father’s betrothed.” Two drops fell from the swollen eyes of the unfortunate soul and he brushed them off as if their presence shamed him. His demeanour changed, and the thick lips parted. His mother’s heart pounded against her breast as with her very being, she willed him not to confess that truth. Nosakhare recovered fast. He frowned at the rotting mass beside him and his uncle. In his look, a clear warning. “Allow him finish,” Pa Osagie grumbled, aware that he had lost a golden opportunity to discover the reason for this madness. “Papa left her and dived under their bed for his cutlass. I sharpened it that morning. He looked at me weird and somehow, I knew he meant for us to die. I dragged Iye from the floor and begged her to run away fast. She disappeared into the bush and I, Idemudia...me, his first son...he chased me round and round our house. At the back, he tripped on a stump from the mango tree and fell on our grinding stone. His whole body shook and went still. There was no reason to call for help since he was died on the spot.” As if as an afterthought, the accused cried out: “How is his death our fault? Idahosa knows I have never been alone with his daughter. I can swear to it. When I go to their house, it is not to see her. Why should you punish us for my father’s misfortune?” He untied the cloth around his waist and let it drop the ground. Limping a little, he grabbed his mother by the stomach and lifted her from the sand, supporting her weight with his injured shoulder. “Continue,” Pa Osagie instructed, choosing calmness in the face of such defiance. “Get to the end.” “I left to get mama. Together, we brought him into the bush and cut him. She put the parts into a sack while I dug the hole. We buried him as fast as we could.” Horror plastered itself across the face of the old men when the boy finished his tale. Their red eyes, like admirers of a mural in a studio pierced into him, seeking perhaps, a glimpse into his soul. Only Idahosa looked unfazed. He drew shapes on the earth with his biggest toe. Pa Osagie was the first to break the silence. “Osifo was as wicked as two devils but where did you and your mother find the strength for such...wickedness to his corpse?” “Tell it again,” he whispered in his bird-like voice. “Maybe I will understand this time. You are leaving out something or perhaps there is a hidden meaning to your words.” Hearing this, the boy’s mother heaved a sigh and fell. It was clear she would never rise again. One flick of the old man’s finger and the women dragged away her corpse. “Now it is just us men, Nosakhare. Tell me the truth, but mind that your life depends on it.”

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