Okagbue went back into the pit, which was now surrounded by spectators. After
a few more hoe-fuls of earth he struck the iyi-uwa. He raised it carefully with the hoe
and threw it to the surface. Some women ran away in fear when it was thrown. But they
soon returned and everyone was gazing at the rag from a reasonable distance. Okagbue
emerged and without saying a word or even looking at the spectators he went to his
goatskin bag, took out two leaves and began to chew them. When he had swallowed
them, he took up the rag with his left hand and began to untie it. And then the smooth,
shiny pebble fell out. He picked it up.
"Is this yours?" he asked Ezinma.
"Yes," she replied. All the women shouted with joy because Ekwefi's troubles
were at last ended.
All this had happened more than a year ago and Ezinma had not been ill since.
And then suddenly she had begun to shiver in the night. Ekwefi brought her to the
fireplace, spread her mat on the floor and built a fire. But she had got worse and worse.
As she knelt by her, feeling with her palm the wet, burning forehead, she prayed a
thousand times. Although her husband's wives were saying that it was nothing more
than iba, she did not hear them.
Okonkwo returned from the bush carrying on his left shoulder a large bundle of
grasses and leaves, roots and barks of medicinal trees and shrubs. He went into Ekwefi's
hut, put down his load and sat down.
"Get me a pot," he said, "and leave the child alone."
Ekwefi went to bring the pot and Okonkwo selected the best from his bundle, in
their due proportions, and cut them up. He put them in the pot and Ekwefi poured in
some water.
"Is that enough?" she asked when she had poured in about half of the water in
the bowl.
"A little more... I said a little. Are you deaf?" Okonkwo roared at her.