by
Obododimma Oha
This essay is not a celebration of self or a blowing of the fire of a personal ego,
neither is it a hyperbolic claim about being tough as a man. It is rather a
written acknowledgement and a confession that tough women (mothers, aunties,
sisters, etc) have all played important
laudable roles in making a manhood. Not that one has not benefitted immensely
from fatherhood or from uncles and many other elderly men. In fact, growing up
to become a man is a school involving sitting and learning at the feet of many,
men or women, but choice plays a role here. If one spends time only with
disgruntled male chauvinists and misogynists, be sure that one would grow up
hating or mistreating women, or propagating an idea that they are inferior beings whose ideas do not matter in life. Or
if a boy stays all the time with women, he may grow up forgetting ascent to manhood. Every year, "Obi is a boy"! Be sure that "Obi" would remain "a boy," what more, one that is "blessed among women." Growing up with elderly men around still has its advantages for a boy. But one
is lucky to have benefited equally from great men and women and would like to
narrate some ways that some of these great and tough women have played
important roles in one's masculinity.
It is only natural that I start from my mother, but she has an important
maternal antecedent. Yes, my grandmother was the big picture. Granma who was
known throughout our community as a highly gifted woman, an accomplished griot (one known for ita abụ egede) and panegyrist with a signature hand fan who can turn any hard heart with her
praise songs, a great cook who was believed to cook even ordinary water and it
would have a delicious taste and other women of the village would apprentice
themselves to her so as to learn from her, a woman of substance who was said to
excel and even outshine manhood to the extent that she was nicknamed
"agbịrịgba tugburu ebule" (the little stray seed of a shrub that stuck to
the hairy body of the ram and overpowered/destroyed it in the process), and so on. Grandma
loved her grandchildren very much and was greatly delighted when the
grandchildren devoured whatever she could afford. She also died as the oldest
person in her village --- over 100 years, to be modest! She had that
longevity that puzzled everyone and which could only be a special gift from her
maker!
Grandma, Ajaanụbiụdụ (Would her fame ever cease being heard far and
near?), Agbịrịgba tụgburụ ebule, was something else. Smallish in stature, yet very tough as a
survivalist. God must have started trying out the technology of miniaturization in human creation with her! She, as far as I could remember, would walk all the way from her
village to ours, not requesting to be helped or aided by a walking stick. The
companions she had were her handbag and her hand fan. That fan, made of raffia
palm, was a kind of identity card she carried along (I called it her "signature" above for a reason!)
She was a great book of books and following after her in life was a
challenging thing. It was clearly a case of stepping into big, OVERSIZE shoes.
It must have been so for her daughter, my mother, Onyedumeziokwu (Who is
truly on my side?), also called "Nwa Agbịrịgba tụgburụ ebule" (The
offspring of Agbịrịgba tụgburụ ebule). Nwa Agbịrịgba proved the dictum that
marriage is like transplanting a plantain sucker to one's farm, because like
the tree and its produce and would like to propagate it and have its kind
nearby. Nwa Agbịrịgba was everything excellent: a great and careful farmhand, a
great singer who was often picked as ọgbannnaaya (one reserved for the last dance and who dances alone), and a wife who stood by her
husband, helping him to train soldiers, not just children. Nwa Agbịrịgba saw
the training of sons as a quest to retain her husband beyond death: in other
words, to make sure that he is still there, to the disappointment of ụmụnnadị (the outside jerks)!
Growing up under this great matriarch was a thing of joy and, indeed, challenging but enviable.
Did she overlook her daughters? No!
She tried to replicate the Agbịrịgba spirit in them. I remember that whenever
Nwa Agbịrịgba was away -- maybe for a meeting or for a ceremony -- these little
amazons would see themselves as playing her role as mother. They would cook,
sweep, wash, clean, etc. the way she would, just to make sure they turned her
absence to presence. They did not want her to regret it, say for instance, in
thinking: "If I had been at home...." They carried us on their backs,
fought for us, fed us, etc. Indeed, inheriting their clothes or shoes was one
thing we looked on to and which gladdened our hearts when that happened. It was
not just the shoes or clothes, I now realize. No; it was something more. it was
a bond; we had some trophies of relationship to inherit, along with their great
pride. The girls among us inherited from elder girls, the boys from elder boys. We wore the materials and showed them off as people who had something
great to celebrate, as continuations of the Agbịrịgba spirit. In these days of individualism and isolation, those
trophies, those bonds, tell about people with a great value system, with an Agbịrịgba spirit. Such system
cannot be replaced by social media sharing or Facebook friendship system!
Agbịrịgba spirit is Agbịrịgba spirit. Agbịrịgba spirit is daring and innovative, just as
it is fearless. Was it not Agbịrịgba herself that counselled that I should not
be frightened and run when I am confronted by monsters featuring in my dream?
And when I slept and dreamed again of being attacked and stood my ground to
fight back, did the monsters not turn and run, never to attack again but left
me and my dreams alone later. Wherever I see Agbịrịgba spirit replicated (not
contaminated!) in this or that relationship, I simply expect the fire and not just the smoke. I simply expect sufficiency, thoughtfulness, and independence.
Agbịrịgba spirit is a great value. It makes one unique, makes enormous
demands, but one can be sure of becoming the fire when one lights the fire.
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