Urhobos Once Spoke Great
Part I
I am Enemuadia, a young male eghele and wrestler, at home with my father, Bamon. His real name is Agbaimoni but no one calls him that unless there is something very serious happening. We are at home in Okunoho, Idjerhe. We are originally from Ọkuabude, Okpẹ, but my grandfather, Evugbemu, came here because where we now live is a nascent clan of Agbarha people from eastwards. Idjerhe is a new settlement of many opportunities. We like it here.
Evening time is with us, but sunset is still a couple of hours away. We have just finished eating amiedi r’isekpe and usi. Bamon often boasts he cooks the best amiedi in the world. At least two hundred people will testify to that. Fikiridie osemewomrena ojicheremamor!
Iriguvwedor, my mother, has gone away for weeks to do ọmiọwọ for the last of her four daughters, Akamoha, in Ọkuabude. I am the ubrevwiẹ and only son of my parents. The meaning of my name is “this is how it is supposed to be.” My mother does not like that name my father gave me and calls me Ame, short for Amierhimẹ, the water of my soul. The water you are destined to drink at a river never flows past you. Nevertheless, marital politics is something I do not understand. It is too twisted and petty most of the time.
My father is well into middle age, and his hair is greying but his lean tall body is still full of youthful strength. He is, however, known for his wisdom and directness; his truth can hurt but his humour is sure to make you roll on the ground with laughter. He is a true Urhobo patriot. Matters of Urhobo survival and flourishing concern him too much. Even though Idjerhe and Ọkuabude or their neighbours have fought no wars in my father’s lifetime, he has fought in eight different wars for Urhoboland. He never speaks about war or native medicine though.
For thirty minutes or so after eating my father keeps silent as a habit. I guess silence and rest helps the food go to the right places in the body. We sit in the centre of our clean sandy compound besides the well enjoying cool breeze. The tall trees that surround our compound catches any high breeze passing and shakes it downward towards us. Ghwo! Akpọvwerenọwo!
I notice since my mother travelled, my father no longer drinks fresh sweet ọgọrọ after supper in the evening. He does not want to waste it. Why sharpen a knife when there is nothing to cut? Ozighẹ. As we relax, I am waiting eagerly to ask Bamon a question. Only if I could speed up time but the right moment comes.
“Bamono, were we the Urhobos more civilised than we are now?”
“Much more civilised. You, young ones did not see what we saw.”
“Any proof of that?”
“Enemuadia, let me tell you, it is all in the ground buried as both perishable and non-perishable objects. Some people will dig it up some day in the future, the non-perishable part but the perishable part stored in brains and bodies we never will recover physically. There is Ekaruvwiyọ Erhi (the memory of the soul) that can remind us of our itewaren (tacit knowledge), knowledge we do not realise we have. Our Erhi never forgets its history.”
“Itewaren cannot be real.”
“Itewaren is real. The amiedi we eat daily is for energy and mental sharpness.”
“Eyẹ?”
“Wọnọvwẹnẹ eyẹ? Egban kiregbanre ukukumeku.”
“Wọse gbeguọ.”
Bamon’s eyes shine with anger but they cool in a flash. I should be learning not doubting.
“Amiedi not palm oil sharpens intelligence more than any other food in this world. Palm nut does many works in the human body and other things. It makes medicines, spoils medicine, makes soap, yields oils, preserves iron from rust, can make explosives, fuels lamps and fires, and completes the body. Wherever Oriẹ (palm tree) grows it is a blessing and the Oriẹ knows. So, if due to death or selfishness we lose the knowledge of the palm tree, it will be happy to remind us.”
“Iyota?”
“Eh.”
“Bamono, will that not require spiritual power to know.”
“That is lazy thinking.”
“How?”
“Plants have a language people can and should understand. You cannot swim if you do not understand the language of the river. Can you be a fisherman without understanding the language of fishes? You can only play Igede (drums) or Oghwere (flute) to produce music if you know their language. Farmers must know the language of rain and soil to produce harvest. That is what we call onairuo (technology or specialised skills). With guidance, discipline, and practice you can learn the language of plants it is not magic.”
Bamon’s revealing gist intrigues me, but I say nothing.
“Mọmẹ, we have seen our culture decline with the stagnation of our language. Multiple migrations are one of the problems causing it. Communities must endure for a long time under stable conditions for their languages to be strong. That is the foundation of a strong culture. When the Urhobo civilisation began to evolve for the better and outshine its neighbours we had rivals, enemies. For countless generations we were known as Ihuo’Esiri. We became named Ihuo’Eriwin by our enemies when our culture achieved ascendancy over all neighbouring ethnic groups.”
“Ihuo’Eriwin, tufie! [spitting sputum]. Why would anyone call us that?”
“We rapidly evolved our language by expanding its vocabulary constantly, introducing new forms and figures of expression, and developed an elaborate taxonomy of things. As the language became richer, it gave us the ability to describe and explain things that were hitherto unapproachable within the prevailing culture. We started to gain systematic control over our environments and affairs.”
“Like what?”
“Urhobos once spoke great. Language within the borders of culture is possible by consensus. We are people of consensus. two, ten or five score of people using or remembering words or terms do not meet the criteria of consensus for a language.”
“Please, give me an example of expanding language.”
“Oyovwiri. When we started to make iron, we called iron ore, egba, a synonym of [excessive] strength and iron products, ubroegba [piece of iron]. Soon came the names and descriptions of various aspects of iron-making technologies centred on the words egba/igba and otua [heating/burning]. Ukonigba [Kitchen of Iron; kiln; bloomery], ọtuaware [red hot], ọtuafo [white hot], irege [fire-proof mud, refractory clay], amiegba [molten iron], otuire [burnt wood; coke], ushi otuire [coking pile], ituigba [rust], ori egba [iron oil; as lubricant and antirust], isheren [fizz or steam produced by pouring water on hot molten iron] and okaregba [blacksmith]. Those words are no longer active in our language because we no longer make iron; only ubrogba survives. Iyibo and Odaka are words we use for the same iron technology today. We lost ours to the Iyibo.”
“I am beginning to see what you mean. How about the names of colours, we do not have many, but the Iyibo has at least forty?”
“You asked the question well. Okerẹ means it is coloured. Okerẹbiẹ [black], okerẹfo / okerẹfua [white] okerenu [blue], okerẹbe [green], okerẹire[brown], okerẹware [red], okerẹsha [grey], okerẹodo[yellow]. Okerẹnuare [purple] did not diffuse into the Urhobo language as a colour but as the name of a notorious nuisance, a black and purple snake. Today we only have the colours ọwaware [red], ọfuafo[white], and obiebi [black] in our language.”
“We fought the senseless war which our enemies started leaving thousands of dead. Hence, we became the people of Erivwi. The truth was our rivals and enemies were envious of the sudden ascendancy of our language and culture that was effortlessly supplanting his. That was an early beginning of our decline.”
“Reckoning in urri (thousands) oduduru (millions) and odurupror (tens of millions) we used to, we now think and count in tens, twenties, and thirties. Udje and ogba are our highest everyday numbers. We no longer have a consensus word for a hundred. Udje-ihwe is ten score, 200, and udje-ive is two score, 40. Urri, oduduru and pror now casually mean too many to count. Written language and symbols went from a clandestine art to an infectiously spread medium then back to an even more clandestine art.”
“Our enemies ganged up to our North and South to destroy us, but the Ame’Urhobo that flows in our bodies is not weak. Our time will come and the greatness of our people will shine through without pause. But we must know ourselves first. That is the most important thing, knowing ourselves very well.”
“Bamono, as I see it…”
“Let me go and see Okasan. He will be waiting for me now. When I come back, we can continue our discussion later or tomorrow.”
“Go and come.”
Our intense discussion ends. Bamon rises from his reclining chair and walks out of the compound. He walks with his usual swagger, the gait of a proud and confident Urhobo man. I want to be like my father. The question I always ask is, am I and Urhobo patriot. It is a question I am too afraid to answer.
My oldest sister, Erorokoni, is the second staunch patriot in our house; outsiders call Ọmọtẹ Bamon. Her former wimp of a husband, Boiburu, would say of Erorokoni, unuroye branughwu oboba, her mouth is worse than young death. She was fire and he was water. Her second husband, Okasan, is a hotter fire than my sister and his fire subsumes hers. Okasan is a warrior like my father and fought alongside him a few times. It shocked me and others to know Erorokoni in the last two wars Okasan fought in went with him. Was she a fighter or helper in those wars? I am yet to ask.
My biggest question is why are Bamon, Erorokoni and Okasan so committed to fighting for Urhobo causes? For what are they even fighting? Something tells me in my heart that it is all a feeling not something you learn through discussion.
Ayasiefa
Grimot Nane
