Ikemefuna heard a whisper close behind him and turned round sharply. The man
who had whispered now called out aloud, urging the others to hurry up.
"We still have a long way to go," he said. Then he and another man went before
Ikemefuna and set a faster pace.
Thus the men of Umuofia pursued their way, armed with sheathed machetes, and
Ikemefuna, carrying a pot of palm-wine on his head, walked in their midst. Although he
had felt uneasy at first, he was not afraid now. Okonkwo walked behind him. He could
hardly imagine that Okonkwo was not his real father. He had never been fond of his real
father, and at the end of three years he had become very distant indeed. But his mother
and his three-year-old sister... of course she would not be three now, but six. Would he
recognise her now? She must have grown quite big. How his mother would weep for
joy, and thank Okonkwo for having looked after him so well and for bringing him back.
She would want to hear everything that had happened to him in all these years. Could he
remember them all? He would tell her about Nwoye and his mother, and about the
locusts... Then quite suddenly a thought came upon him. His mother might be dead. He
tried in vain to force the thought out of his mind. Then he tried to settle the matter the
way he used to settle such matters when he was a little boy. He still remembered the
song: Eze elina, elina!
Sala
Eze ilikwa ya
Ikwaba akwa ogholi
Ebe Danda nechi eze Ebe
Uzuzu nete egwu Sala