Ikezue held out his right hand. Okafo seized it, and they closed in. It was a fierce
contest. Ikezue strove to dig in his right heel behind Okafo so as to pitch him backwards
in the clever ege style. But the one knew what the other was thinking. The crowd had
surrounded and swallowed up the drummers, whose frantic rhythm was no longer a
mere disembodied sound but the very heartbeat of the people.
The wrestlers were now almost still in each other's grip. The muscles on their
arms and their thighs and on their backs stood out and twitched. It looked like an equal
match. The two judges were already moving forward to separate them when Ikezue,
now desperate, went down quickly on one knee in an attempt to fling his man
backwards over his head. It was a sad miscalculation. Quick as the lightning of
Amadiora, Okafo raised his right leg and swung it over his rival's head. The crowd burst
into a thunderous roar. Okafo was swept off his feet by his supporters and carried home
shoulder high. They sang his praise and the young women clapped their hands: "Who
will wrestle for our village?
Okafo will wrestle for our village. Has he thrown a hundred men?
He has thrown four hundred men. Has he thrown a hundred Cats?
He has thrown four hundred Cats. Then send him word to fight for us."