NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2015 Volume 15.2 | Page 10

“Obowie Mama,” I greet her, genuflecting.
“Itohan, woye-ena?” Her voice seems
far away.
“I am fine Mama.”
The short man, though young-looking
is obviously Ohenlen, the priest.
He says we should move further down
the bush path along the river bank.
Fresh izobo of earthen pots, broken
calabashes, pieces of red and white
clothes, native white chalks, severed
heads of goats and chicken fill both
side of our path. I am shivering as we
move further into the damp bush.
We finally settle at a spot away from
the foot path, where the river touches
our feet.
“This place will do. Move closer here
and pull down your wrapper. Who will
stand for you?” Ohenlen asks.
I don’t understand what he means, so
I look towards Matron who suggested
we come here in the first place. She did
not tell me I have to bring a surety. She
smiles and steps forward, still clutching
her handbag close to her chest.
“I will stand for her, she is my daughter;
her mother that would have been here
today has left us for the great beyond.”
“Ok, that is very good then, no
difference between the snail and it’s
shell. I know you have good head and
your luck will follow her to the white
man’s land and anything she touches
will prosper and she will never forget
what you have done for her this day.”
I say thank you to Matron again and
again for standing for me.

8

“Where is the sacrifice?”

The chick I brought is awake and