by
Obododimma Oha
I know that some husbands give their wives all kinds of pet names,
sometimes to their own doom, especially when the names are weapons used in
dealing with such husbands. One of my late paternal uncles added "Eme
Oyiri" to his late wife's name, "Mgbọkwọ," and preferred to call
her "Mgbọkwọ Eme-Oyiri" (Mgbọkwọ that is excellent and has no
comparison, a unique Mgbọkwọ, an exceptionally good Mgbọkwọ). Those of us
children that clustered around her shortened or transformed the name to
"Mgbọkwọmori" or "Mgbọkwọmoyi." Not that we were linguists or that we knew what we
were doing in transforming the praise-oriented name. We did not know about the addition then, what more the significance of our clipping. But the great pet name, nevertheless, preached to us, showed us the
meaning of love between husband and wife and convinced us that there was
something sweet in marriage. Uncle was superb, too, and liked children. A good
storyteller and knower, he easily won our hearts and did not need to preach to
us to scratch his elderly back.
Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri was patient and understanding; she bore my uncle's masculine excesses and deviations and because of her attitude won the hearts of many.
Some people that knew the couple closely can testify to how their fights were
enacted as humorous encounters of the other. The "fights" only
consolidated their love life, cementing the relationship and making Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri really incomparable as a wife and lover. Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri was
Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri, unique and lovable!
It was a common discourse about how Mgbọkwọ extended her caring attitude to
the many children that clustered around her, that preferred to spend their ịpụ ọrịrị (casual visits associated with children) at Mgbọkwọ's house, by not only giving them food
when they are hungry, but also breastfeeding the babies among them on behalf
of their mothers who had gone to market or village meetings. This author was,
indeed, one of those who would courageously enter her kitchen and collect food
to eat without being challenged! One nickname he earned easily, given his use
of Mgbọkwọ's kitchen (as if it were his own mother's) was "Mgbọkwọmoyi a
biara m iri ukwa" (Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri, I have come to eat breadfruit
pudding)! The nickname stuck, especially because he continued his acting and
Mgbọkwọ continued her caring and understanding response.
Perhaps making this bond stronger was the fact the Mgbọkwọ and my own
biological mother lived once under the same roof like sisters. This made it possible
for them to share things, including the fact that they both saw each other's
child as her own. It was this understanding that made both try to care for the
other in the other's presence or absence. My siblings and I saw Mgbọkwọ as our
own mother. Indeed, she was our own mother and cared for us beyond measure. If
my own mother went to market or to a meeting, we felt at home with Mgbọkwọ and my
mother would be relaxed knowing that we were still in her own hands. We were always
in our mother's presence if we were with Mgbọkwọ.
She is now long dead, but do I sill hear her voice in my head? Yes, I do. I
see her in her children who walk and talk and act like her. I also remember
that her voice awoke me every morning when, as the odi griot, she went round
the village singing:
Atamiri, ihi gi egbule m eee!
Atamiri, m ji eje mba ee!
A si m ihi gi egbule m ee!
And villagers that hear her voice would respond:
Odi, odi, odi!
Odi anu odi azu!
We could translate these to mean:
Atamiri, spare me in your awe!
Atamiri, with whom I go places!
Please, spare me in your great awe!
Response:
Odi, odi, odi!
Odi festival, of sumptuous fish and meat!
Her being a village griot meant that she was a great singer. She always
sang her work, and we children listened and learnt from her voice. We learnt to
sing our tasks and performed such tasks
happily. Although we did not sing about the goddess Atamiri, but Mgbọkwọ as a
professor taught the power of songs. That was in agreement with her husband
telling us many exciting stories and, in fact, teaching us indirectly how to
tell stories and to get people to listen.
When I think about Mgbọkwọ, I realise how African femininity has changed
today greatly. The African elite women can wear their colourful had-ties and lace to gatherings, but
cannot be Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri. Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri is Mgbọkwọ Eme-oyiri!
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