A Kick From Harry

Chibu's mother had an oil mill that stood right at the intersection of the road leading to our compound and that leading to Umuomu village. "Amauzagba" it was called. This particular oil mill was not always there. It came much later when Obinna's dad, Dee Basil closed a similar mill that existed right in front of his house. It was co-owned by him and Chibu's mother. I had always wondered why that particular mill closed and Chibu's mother Anna had to move further the road to its then present place to set up shop.

I really do not know...my cousin Bokibo had answered while I stared..."probably dwindling fortunes and expansion into the pool betting business....Bokibo finished with a look that had a bit of a doubt...

But why do you ask?..... 

My earliest recollection of Anna's oil mill was as fresh as the time my family and the "Opara family" had a sketch competition of a roaring, bearded lion. Though without an umpire to crown winner, the Lion drawn by Ikay was so fierce that it looked like a real one while Chidi, my elder brother's sketch had the Lion nicely placed in that three-dimensional spatial space that was foreign to anyone at that time. 

Oil mills were popular sights around the nooks and crannies of Ubaha at that time and by sheer interest, I had groomed myself on the different facets of this business in terms of its different moving parts. I remembered the jute bags of palm fruit, with its seam bursting by the threads, laying on the sides of the mill. They were usually stacked in fours or in six's at a time. The number of bags at each given time in any oil mill was equivalent to the job available to whoever needed a job. " A ma asu akpa abuo", A ma agba ya ka igwe" , "A ma aku overnight" was popular verbiage around here.

The slippery floors of the mill was another facet that I had imprinted in my mind as I remember having multiple falls while trying to navigate this terrain, only till I learned to rub both feet in the sand to gain traction did I stop tumbling. I was a city kid that hardly got my clothes soiled, but this business got me dirty on a regular whilst I hung around my cousins as they eked out a living.

The layout of this mill was a pretty simple one. The fabricated compressor stood right in the middle of the outlined space with a hole dug out beneath it, big enough for a "Timpoti" or a pail for evacuation of the runoff oil from the press. On the side of the mill, tucked in a corner was a half-buried fabricated furnace built with metal drums with sides shelved with heaps of sand and space under that served as bellow for fire. This is where the palm fruits were cooked. A thing to remember was the old jute bags that served as a covering, more like a lid, containing the heat as they slowly, like a crock pot, cooked the palm fruits into a softer mesh.

The pounding of the near soft, almost shredded palm fruits seemed to be the hardest part of this oil production process. It was the exact way pounded yam was pound with a pestle only this time, it was shredded palm fruits . The pounders were the heart of the mill. "e ga asugheli otu akpa nkwu?", "Nani m suchali akpa abuo" were words to scare the unprepared. A brazen show of strength and painstaking bravado was an everyday thing here. My uncle Bolingo whom legend had it that he brought down a wall with his forehead was an ardent pounder "Ya suo, Ya apaa" he pounds and presses.. a rare feat for the strong.

I could replay the heaves and hums my cousins made as they pounded in Unison. Bokibo had a unique sound that he made as he raised the pestle head high whilst Obizuo had yet a funnier heave as he hit a home run on the mortar. A well-synchronized rhythm was always employed, a hum as pestles were raised high and a heave as it descended. It was more of music to the ears for those of us that took pride in observing.

"Oghele"or "Oghebe" were two distinct terms I heard repeatedly to signal when palm produce was ready or not for press. I could not tell the difference. All I could make out at this point would be little dribbles of red oil mixed in a marsh of palm produce, with stifles of smoke making its way up from beneath the mortar like those from a chimney. The heralding signs of fruition of this process were the sweat-drenched tank tops and bare bodies and repeated turning of mesh with the pestle.  

"Ipa Nkwu".. the press was yet another hard process. I would always remember that wooden receptacle that was held together by metal bongs. My best moments were when these bongs were loosened by knocking off the pegs that held them together. How it fell apart like tangerine yanked apart by the middle finger was amazing. The positioning of the pressers was the key here. A push and pull tactic was always fun to watch. The positioning of the feet while managing the slippery floor was more of a shuffle and well coordinated to exact maximum pull on the T-shaped pulley.. My uncle Bolingo yet again could press this all by himself while my cousins Bokibo, Asaa, Obizuo, Menwa, Wahab, Bahama made do as partners as the pounded and pressed far into the night.

In all those times, I never saw any of my girl cousins engage in any of these processes. I have always wondered why the ladies never participated in these strenuous ways of making a living.

Ogadinma, Obinna's younger sister was always prominent then. She was always around either combing through the fibers or mere keeping the boys’ company as they toiled. I remember her strolling with those little feet back to her fathers’ house, swinging that lantern that had its globes dirty and murky back and forth, side to side. A lot of girls that I cannot remember were relegated to "Ipa Fiber". This relegation was not by sheer design but by mere considerations of strength and built. Relegation from the fact that the men were born to carry the heavier burden, from the responsibilities of keeping the women as supple and smoothly rounded, less they pile up muscles from these activities sentenced to men. The answer had been staring in my face all along. I remember one time that I decided to move from being an observer to a worker, no one led me to the "Ipa Fiber", I chose it myself. I had observed it as the least strenuous part of this process. All you needed do was to use a tool shaped like a comb to sieve through the chaff and spent fibers, separating the nuts from the shell. I did not last long as "Ogwu Fibre, a thong from the mesh had dug dip, right beneath the cuticle of my forefinger, ending my inaugural run at oil production.

I remember the girls, keeping the men company with those lanterns and their never-ending small talks while the men pounded and toiled way into the night......I also remember most of them trying to fill "timpotis" of "Aki edibila" cracked nuts..a byproduct of production

In those days, men were as gentle as Prince Harry. We would have done the same thing that he did while trying to pry open the doors of that silver E type Jaguar for Meghan, while the teary princess mouthed a "Thank you"..an age long act of chivalry that would never go out of style.

     "For me, Chivalry is not dead; it is an involuntary reflex".....Jim Butcher

Bokibo was curious at this point " so what are you saying? ...he asked, slowly getting my drift...

Our society had always had inbuilt contingencies that promoted chivalry. Unwritten acts that had been in place centuries on centuries that encouraged chivalry to thrive. Women were not restricted by design, but our society had in place, behaviors, and acts that made it paramount to defer to them in matters that seemed burdensome. Our society had made us all gentlemen without us knowing so. Men took it upon themselves to carry out this show and never allowed it go out of style.

Even with post-colonial influences and the courtesies left over by the Brits, our everyday lives were influenced by these little acts.  

Papa Nicholas had a shiny white horse bicycle that was for his   "Misisi m", .You would always hear him say " Ga Hiocha Igwe misisi m", even when the bicycle was not dirty. He derived a lot of joy keeping that bicycle for his wife in pristine condition. No one dared touch that bicycle except on rare situations when Chibu had to go check up on papa Nico "N'okpuhu". He only brought it out on Sundays to take his wife to church. I also remembered the ritual of the onward journey to church.

"Misisi m, e kwarala? wanting to know if the wife was ready

"A putawalam o"..You would see Mama Anna tying her head wrap as she walked slowly to an already mounted Papa Nicholas.

  "Chivalry..a romantic idealism closely related to Christianity, which makes honor the guiding principle of conduct. Connected with this is the ancient concept of the gentleman"....Richard M Weaver.

Papa Nicholas would then lower the bicycle to an angle for Mama Chibu to mount while they drove off. Other times, Papa Nicholas would start the ride, albeit slowly for Mama Chibu, who would then do a two-step maneuver to hop on the carriage. The companies that built those bicycles those days even recognized the differences in build and expectations. Papa Chibu's everyday bicycle "Igwe nwoke" was quite different from the white horse bicycle that was feminine by design. The metal bar that ran from the crow in the handles to the pit beneath the seat was the defining difference. This difference meant for a different way of mounting bike. It was also very hard to ride this bicycle for the mere presence of this bar. This was a bicycle for Men. It was uncommon to see girls that rode these bicycles. The ones that eventually did were either tomboyish or physically strong like the boys. I remember when pending errands would lay unattended because the only available bicycle was the "Men’s". Girls were discouraged though not absolutely but my today assessments would pinpoint reasons to be the flaw in mounting processes and the expose it portended to bring.

"Ikuku buo, Ahu Ike Okuko" an adage that says " when the wind blows, the anus of the fowl is exposed" probably was the guiding principle in those decisions that unofficially discouraged the girls from riding this "Men" bicycle.

Back in the days, there were no girls that wore shorts nor trousers openly or brazenly, at least to my recollections. The Brits had left us with gender appropriate skirts, pinafores, gowns but prior to that, we had in addition, our wrappers and "tie-tie" clothes. With these array of clothing peculiar to our girls as then, any attempt to mount the "Men" bicycle had a likely possibility of exposing what laid beneath. Seeing a girls underwear then was likened to having slept with her " Anya rie, onu eriela" what the eye has seen, the mouth has eaten. So it was highly frowned at or rather discouraged for girls to even try.  Since it was not an absolute existing order, most girls that rode such bicycles lay vulnerable to prying eyes as the crowbar built into this type of bicycle did not allow for proper alignment of riders body mechanics that suited shielding of underwear. The up and down swaddle movements made it easier for the boys to go for "Nkwu Ojukwu" A sweeter breed of the palm nuts that laid in the innermost core of the bunch.

A better approach was for the girls to always saddle as passengers while the men who had nothing to hide and whom nature and society had bestowed "gentlemanly" to always lower the carriage less she exposes herself, exactly what prince Harry did as he, instead of jumping into the convertible, had pried open a door that could easily be opened by Meghan, just for the fact that he did not want this age-long traditions to go out of style.

We were inertly morally driven people.

   "A gentleman is not defined by the content of his wallet or the cut of his suit. He is defined by his manners and the content of his character"...

The societies we live and grew up in has a lot of social implications as regards to how we relate in worldwide views. Today's woman is definitely not yesterday’s woman. An understanding of yesterday’s woman, however, will be helpful in determining a way forward for tomorrows woman and her accommodations as she fits in an ever-changing world.

At It matters period, we recognize the fact that our societal upbringings and experiences have a spatial relationship on how we fit into this changing dynamics. The ability to balance the two acts is the key. The ability not to forget who we are while trying to achieve who we want to be is the other key. The ability to remember where we came from and apply those adaptations to where we now find ourselves is yet another key.

We would keep reminding our girls about who we are. We would keep throwing out these snippets of stories that buttress our behaviors while encouraging them to modify to suit changing times. We would make sure that the history that brought us this far is not forgotten. We would keep promoting those little acts of chivalry that had been existing since time immemorial. Even at these trying times of feminism, we would strive to educate our girls on rational decisions that are native to us and reward pride in acceptance.

We would highlight the gains of feminism where a balanced equilibrium in the scheme of things is the way to go. Radical feminism would be discouraged. Our social expectations should reflect who we are and who we want to be.

"The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna".....Elizabeth Barrett Browning

It Matters Period.

Uchenna Iwualla M.D

.