The House of Ịzụagbalubenze

By Azubuike Samuel

Grandfather has been calling for a family reunion for as long as I have been at the House of Ịzụagbalubenze—1445 days, 18 hours and counting. He keeps a reminder and makes me call every member of his family every few weeks, telling them that he wants to see them all at the same time. It’s always one excuse or the other. Nobody seems to have the time. The ones that have the time are not ready for a family reunion. Sometimes, they do not even bother picking up; when they do pick up, they always seem to be in a hurry to get off the phone.

To be fair, they visit him, but for some reason, Grandfather wants to see everybody simultaneously. I do not know the real reason for this; nevertheless, I am determined to find out. Grandfather tells me everything. He makes me sit on a stool close to him whenever he’s thinking, and he loves thinking out loud. Initially, this made me very uncomfortable, but as we progressed, I learned this was surviving for him. Grandfather wanted to be heard. Sometimes, I like to think I know Grandfather better than Mummy P, but I know I would never know Grandfather the way Mummy P does. What Grandfather and Mummy P share is transcendent. Love, where seeing is enough, where effort is not required. Love, so assuring and secure. Love that is comfortable and soft but never fragile.

Mummy P is Grandfather’s third wife, well, second if you count the Christian way. Grandfather’s first wife was his father’s youngest, and Grandfather, being the first son, continued marrying her after his father died. I was not fortunate enough to meet Nee Ojemba, but I’ve heard a plethora of pleasant things about her. It was said that she died after a short illness, and she had two boys for Grandfather— Brother Iweka and Brother Ofoegbu. Three years before her demise, Grandfather converted to Christianity and married Aunty Josephine. Aunty Josephine was the daughter of one of the parishioners. She gave birth to six children, but only one girl survived— Aunty Nkiru. She is said to have lived a long and sad life. Grandfather married Mummy P only recently —about a year and a few months before I came to live at the house of Ịzụagbalubenze. Mummy P has been married before but was sent back to her father’s house when she could not bear children.

Lately, Grandfather has taken to telling everyone, “ógèm eru be go,” that he can hear his fathers calling him. I do not want this to be true. Over the years, I’ve devoted my time to caring for Grandfather; my best moments have been time spent with him. It wasn’t always like this. When I started, I found him terribly insufferable and quite talkative. He would refuse to do things that are for his benefit to prove a point clear to no one but him! Grandfather would refuse to eat; he would also not request any other food. Other times, he would not accept any food that wasn’t roasted lizards or crickets. Sometimes, he would consume so many vegetables that one would think his life depended on eating that many greens at a time, and then he would mess up the entire toilet if he decided to use the toilet and not Mummy P’s little garden. Grandfather would talk so much my ears would ache! This was not the intimate talking he always called me to sit on a stool to listen to, just rambling about different things—how the church has stopped worshipping God and is now serving Mammon. He would talk about his childhood and the white men. How complacent the children of the fathers had become. He would go on and on about his time working as an Educational secretary, about his wives and how they had all been different phases of his life. He would talk about the country going “downhill though it was never on a hill.” Grandfather spent the longest time dwelling on how better things had been many years back, even though that time was still relatively unpleasant, about this civilian government or that military regime. Occasionally, he would talk about the war, and each time, he would weep for what was, what could have been, and what would never be. After every ‘episode’ about the war, he would shudder in tears, hands and lips quivering. Echoes of his tears reverberated through the house.

Over time, I’ve gotten to know Grandfather and accepted him for who he is and who he’s trying to be. I see him. I’ve seen his occasional kindness, anger, warmth, and the frightened young man.

I don’t think Grandfather is going to die anytime soon, but I’m scared to hope. Hope is a luxury I cannot afford. I refuse to imagine what my life would be like when Grandfather is no more. I’ve had my fair share of loss, and certainly fate will spare me this pain. Surely, the hands of death will skip me this time.

Telling everyone about his imminent death seems to be working, though. There have been more positive responses than ever before. 

Uncle Joe visited for the first time this quarter and confirmed he would be coming with his family. Uncle Joe barely comes even though he lives very close—in the lively city of Onitsha. Each time Uncle Joe comes around, he acts like a child who has had his video game taken; he never sits down, always in a hurry, forever frowning. A part of me believes he hates Grandfather and comes to check off a box. I don’t think about this often; he comes bearing gifts, which is enough for me. In one of the ‘sessions’ where I sit on a stool and lend a listening ear, Grandfather said Uncle Joe was robbed of a childhood and proper maternal care. His mother was pregnant with him when the war ended and had died to bring him into the world. Aunty Josephine was grieving at the time for her children who did not live long enough and the ones whose lives had ended with the war. I do not know of Uncle Joe’s father. Grandfather has never spoken about him, and during the ‘sessions,’ I do not get to ask questions. 

Last week, Aunty Nkiru was here. But then again, when is she never here? Aunty Nkiru is affable, but like Grandfather, she is garrulous. She buys me bananas and groundnuts. Grandfather always beams when he sees her and always has a perpetual smile when talking about her in the ‘sessions.’ She came after the war and stayed. For Grandfather, she was a sign that good things would still come. Whenever Aunty Nkiru comes, they engage in what looks like the ‘sessions’— she sits opposite Grandfather, who speaks in a much higher tone and does not look so languid. What Grandfather has with Aunty Nkiru is special. Different. What Grandfather has with each member of his family is unique. This quality of reserving different energy for each person and allowing them to experience him in a way peculiar to them has become one of the things I love the most about Grandfather. I also hate this as fiercely because I see how each of them feels about Grandfather; it’s hard to believe it’s the same person. It can be terrifying, even more frightening, knowing he doesn’t mean it this way. 

Brother Iweka’s relationship with Grandfather is the stark opposite of Grandfather’s relationship with Aunty Nkiru. Brother Iweka is what our people call a big man. Ọgaranya. He is a member of the Igwe’s cabinet and has taken the Ozo title.

Brother Iweka is Grandfather’s first son, and according to Grandfather, Brother Iweka hates him for becoming a Christian and 'abandoning’ him. Brother Iweka has never been to Grandfather’s house for as long as I’ve been at the House of Ịzụagbalubenze. I’ve heard about him. In school, he is the man renovating the classrooms and donating computers. Legend has it that he fixed the road to the school singlehandedly. In the ‘sessions,’ he is the one Grandfather is most sorry about. Grandfather always apologised when his name came up. He always looks down like one in absolution when talking about him. 

One Sunday afternoon, I asked Grandfather if he had any regrets about becoming a Christian. It was one of those Sundays when Grandfather preached in church; on those Sundays, he was usually in the mood to answer questions. I also like how Grandfather looks at anybody who asks questions concerning the faith— his eyes brightening so much that you would think they’d pop out. He clears his throat in the most dramatic way, then stays quiet and ponders momentarily. After Grandfather’s response that Sunday, I came to associate this behaviour with him wishing he had asked more questions, mourning the lost time, and rejoicing that he might help his questioner. He said, “I have no regrets about becoming a Christian. I do wish I asked more questions; I wish I knew the people in my life before I recognised and accepted Christ were still people deserving of love and attention regardless of how they came to be; I wish I regarded them more, that I treated them better. I still wake up every day longing for lost time. I wish I didn’t give them up to accept Christ. Even more, I wish I knew I did not have to”.

Now, as I help Mummy P weed her garden, Brother Ofoegbu drives in. He is the only one who is close to everyone. He never visits; he always “pops” in. I don’t know how I feel about Brother Ofoegbu. Brother Ofoegbu is a lawyer, and he likes to talk supri supri. He was the one who brought me to Grandfather’s house when my Nne Ochie died. After her burial, Brother Ofoegbu and my Uncle Izunna came and said I could not stay in Nne Ochie’s house alone; I would live in another place. They said we were leaving immediately, so I packed my things quickly, and that was how I came to live at the house of Ịzụagbalubenze.

I never knew the house of Ịzụagbalubenze was real or people still lived there. In my school, it was talked about in hushed tones; it sounded like a haunted house. An old priest without children was said to live there. He was said to be a graceful church speaker but was always avoided. Nobody knew anybody who lived there with him or why it was called the house of Ịzụagbalubenze. I assumed it was an ancestral name, which it turned out to be. The old man was said to be overtly commanding and would walk about at night, screaming at no one. None of the help was able to stay. Everybody agreed that this old man was a plague to be kept away from.

When we arrived, “THE HOUSE OF IZUAGBALUBENZE” was boldly written on the gates. I was confused. I told my Uncle Izunna what I had heard in school, and he said it was all children talk and that I “would do just fine.”

Initially, I could not stay. I did not like Grandfather, and Mummy P reminded me of my mother. I did not want to remember her. When I was nine, I found her hanging on the ceiling fan. My Nne Ochie took me in afterwards, and I stayed with her until she passed. Throughout my first week at the house of Ịzụagbalubenze, I cried and thrashed, day in and day out. Uncle Izunna had to come; he took me to the car and said, “What is this I hear of you crying and embarrassing me? I will not have it Ịṅụ (You hear?) You cannot stay with me. Mama is dead and buried. Nobody wants you. How many children have seen a big house like this to stay in or plenty food to eat ehhn” I started wailing again, and he smacked me and said I should stop behaving like an ogbanje (Spirit child). He gave me a 100 naira note, and I did not see him again. I never cried again. 

Brother Ofoegbu greeted Mummy P. She went inside with him while I continued weeding. After some time, they both came out. He bid me farewell and left. Mummy P joined me again. Brother Ofoegbu was coming to the reunion. In no time, we finished. I quickly washed my hands and went to Sister Calista’s house. We all go to the same parish; she will be helping Mummy P cook for the reunion, and her sons will help me set up.

On the morning of the reunion, as I was sweeping our Ézì (compound), the sky started getting dark. Everywhere was gradually turning grey. It was December. Harmattan. I took the clothes off the line and ran inside. I checked on grandfather; he was still sleeping, his drinking water untouched, his bathing water warm. I brought out extra layers of cloth and bedding. I set them close to him. Grandfather does not like talking in the morning. I went and continued sweeping. Just as suddenly as the sky had changed colour, it began to pour with so much ferocity that I ran inside.

Mummy P and Sister Calista were already in the living room. I went to my room and sat down to wait out the ominous December rain. In no time, I slept off. When I woke up, it was drizzling, and some cars were parked outside. I went to check on Grandfather.  Mummy P and Sister Calista were sprawled on the sofa. I heard Aunty Nkiru’s distinct high-pitched voice. She was chatting with someone in the verandah. I went and welcomed them; I asked if they wanted anything. “Nothing for now.” I greeted again and made a beeline for Grandfather’s room. He never slept this long.  I tried to wake him softly so he would not wake up startled. When he wasn’t responding, I pat him a little harder—No response. I put my ear on his chest and did not hear anything. In shock, I shook him vigorously.

When he did not stir, I let out a guttural cry. Mummy P, Sister Calista, Uncle Joe, Aunty Nkiru, and Brother Ofoegbu rushed into the room. I registered the confusion on their faces and told them what was happening. Aunty Nkiru touched Grandfather tenderly, put her ear on his chest, and shook her head solemnly. Mummy P called Grandfather by his first name in a voice that was breaking and on the verge of tears. “ Ọsọndụ! Ọsọndụ!” Grandfather opened his eyes tentatively, rose from the bed, looked at us one after the other, said, “Agụụ dị m nà aru,” unblinking, and went into the bathroom.

Biography

Azubuike Samuel is an emerging talent. He is Igbo and resides in Asaba, Delta State, where he spends his time educating children.