The Mpote-Ede Solution

The kitchen line behind my father’s house in Ubaha Orodo is no more. I had raised it to the ground in hopes of replacing with a modern bungalow that would include a kitchen. The plans for the new building looked nothing of the old and would in no way serve what the old kitchen line did.

The old kitchen backyard served as a bathroom. The only claim to a boundary was a huddle of plantain trees that served as an emergent line where we hung our clothes and towels. My uncle Nkutu had a wrapper that he always planted, albeit conspicuously on the first stump of plantain to wade off unknowing trespassers who would ordinarily be on their way to the water well, a crawling space away, each time it was his turn for a shower. The kitchen line did not have the loo and did not serve for one, hence my uncles had the privileges of using the open air more often than usual.

The bathroom in my father’s main house was fully functional. I had, however, made up my mind in those childhood days to have the backyard of the kitchen line as my bathroom and yet another for the toilet. I loved the open air. I loved the fact that we were able to integrate into the village life where open-air businesses were rife. However, as much as I loved the open, It had taken me forever to join the band-wagon with my other cousins in exercising my natural right to defecate in the open. I merely, at first joined in the trail to “ Okpuhu” where my elder cousins would all make a beeline, taking positions that were earshot away from one another, making sure the rest of their clothing was hung on trees and shrubs while I acted off as a watch.

I had come to the conclusion that this “Mpochi” trips that we embarked on as relatives were good. They were avenues for bonding. They were ways we exchanged “gists” and happenings. It was a good shot at chivalry. It was a propaganda machinery hotspot. It was in one of these sessions amidst buzz from numerous flies that I had learned of Chinonyeze. My brother Chima, had stoked a lot of fear when he recounted that the spot that we all squatted, defecating was only a stone throw from the spot Chinonyeze got slapped by the evil spirits that traveled the forest. He said that he knew for sure because he was up in the trees when the incident happened. No one to date challenged him on validity of such fable. However, I had believed amongst other stories that this unseen fear of the forest was the reason for the concentric circles that we all took as positions when taking a dump. We all had to be in the line of sight and best still an earshot. A lot of reassurances were demanded in this “Mpochi” trips. Farting loudly was a good way to let the spirits know that we were there. Peeing on sand lines were other ways to herald our presence and break the silent spell. We were at all times, engaged in small talks and continuos rabbling of leaves knowing fully well that sound and noises didn’t allow the spirits to travel in peace.

These forests united us. We had formed special bonds, bonds that were harnessed by the joy of heading out to the forest for an open-air event. We had our “Mpochi buddies, in fact, I would hold the urge to poop, waiting diligently till my other cousins were as pressed.

I looked forward to those periods. The bushes called us, the forest had a pull on us. Everyone was on the same high. Early morning and its breezes were the best as parties moved in unison to take vital positions and relieve good moments. It was always a good day starter.

I had on numerous visits to our poop trail, made a mental note of the “Mpote-ede”.

The cocoyam leaves were a vital part of our childhood days. I had noticed multiple functions of this particular leaf. The broad nature of this leaf gave it a unique function to act as an umbrella to stem off light drizzles while pooping. It was also smooth, it served as good tissue for bulk stool. Mpote-ede served as a lid to our feces, it put off flies long after we left. Mpote-ede was a well sort leaf on our trails.

Dede Bomboy-my uncle loved this leaf. I guess, as the kindred’s provost, one who was responsible for handing out shares of largesse, Ereusu, Ugbakala, Ihe-agworoagwo, and Anu to the clan members, he needed this leaf to serve as a make-shift plate. The larger the leaf, the larger the ration. I remember how he made a dip in those leaves, making them receptacles for Yam and a bit of its soup. The “Mpote-ede” was part of our daily living.

I, however, was in total shock when “Mpote-ede” gave me the scare of my life. Mpote-ede, that had been good to us in good ways now threatened to ruin me. I had just finished my shower, yet again, behind my father’s kitchen line and was walking to the main house when it struck me. Some heavy aroma of roasted yam was spewing from the bellows of that kitchen. My aunt Theresa was at the helm of affairs on that day and she had pointed to the already roasted yams, nicely laid on the “Mpote-ede”. Next to the yams was another contraption of hers, a special delicacy that had garden eggs, the very little ones in a broth mixed with Utazi and other greens. That "Afufara, Utazi and rotten ugba” contraption was in some sort wrapped in the “Mpote-ede”.

I did not get the exact instructions. All I heard was “Eat”. I had taken some of the yams and dug into the sauce, while pulling in a bit of the mpote-ede, thinking it was all the same. I had been wrong.

The effect was instant. The pain-constant.

My lips had started off as a tingle, then a pringle. I had thought of it less for a minute till all hell seemed to have let loose around my mouth. I was on fire. My mouth felt like multiple ants and crackers then I lost it. I had started screaming, thinking it was my end. My aunt Theresa was quick, she knew that I had probably eaten the leaf. She dashed in, came out running with some red oil in a “Lucozade “ bottle and held my throat while pouring down the liquid. I could feel the itch spread to my throat, it was crawling and gnawing at my throat. It seemed at first that the oil was not doing good, it felt like I was gulping a syrup that was raspy in feel. I felt it was worsening my situation, I screamed some more and by some sheer force and divinity, a quiet storm came. A calmness engulfed my throat, then my mouth, then me.

Then I broke out into a laugh, a hysterical one. I made it.

I had survived a cyanide poisoning. Our beloved “Mpote-ede” that served as our tissue, umbrella, lid, plate now bared its fangs as a killer.

“But we had been using this leaf to clean our bumbum” I had asked my cousin, Nnamdi. I had not noticed any tingling in that area” I had continued, glad that only a wiping was required with this leaf.

No squeeze required. No cyanide involved.

We would survive this old threat in new skin.

Life has taken a turn once more. It seems we have arrived at those times where we might have to revisit those methods that worked for good. We are in trying times where basic amenities were on the brink of alarming shortages. We are at that time where primitive solutions might have to be proffered for complex issues.

The coronavirus abhors clean hands. This is evident. We would and should use water constantly to wash our hands. It is better than the homegrown, fake and sub-standardized hand sanitizers that fall short in its constituency in required alcohol content that is been peddled in nooks and crannies of our dear world.

I have also heard that our old and reliable soldier -Chloroquine, is in some sort a killer of the virus. Our “Ogwonnaoria” herbs and barks might have native quantities of chloroquine, it is at this point better than self-medicating on hydroxyquinoline phosphate derivatives peddled in stores that have lethal side effects when taken inappropriately.

I have heard of Vitamin c in a couple of places. I would suggest our seasonal fruits serve as a source. No one should fall head over heels on other concentrate sources that might emanate looking like sachets and tubes.

I heard from some “gateman” news outlets that the virus feared heat and peppery situations. This is largely false. We live in the tropics and our dear corona still barged in, but like any upper respiratory virus, I would suggest our old “mpote-ede ways of using steam inhalations that ordinarily relieve the sinuses and airways. The staple goat and fish pepper soup might come in handy but the rising cost might keep this away from the poor. I would, however, encourage adequate hydration and fluid replacements regardless.

Unlike the old when we huddled in communion and in community, this new guard demands a form of social distancing that is foreign to us. We should understand the times that we are in and stay home.

The “Mpote-ede solution is a recognition of simple solutions that cater to big problems.

But for every good deed, comes a problem. Care should be taken not to contaminate the source of water, less we would be dealing with other issues that we did not bargain for-Cholera for instance. Care should be taken per ingestion of chloroquine less we flood the nation with toxicity issues. Our population control might ballon, going by friendly banters that are flying, given that “All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy”. I rather we balloon in numbers than we perish.

At it matters period, we bring to the fore-front, burning points that spur conversations. We have identified a few native ways that are inherent in us for survival but we must strive to ensure the cohesiveness that lies in primitivity.

Our survival skills are at stake.

There are no trails or bushes to relieve ourselves, there are no concentric circles for us to exchange banters. All we have is our native knowledge of survival. Make each count.

Uchenna Iwualla M.D

It Matters Period