I Berth

Writing on culture could be a little tricky. For one, the monotony could bore a lot of people, especially the elitist club whose daily activities revolve round signing cheques and counting crispy notes. It could even bore young adults and adolescents ‘pinging’ away with their blackberry phones and sleek mobile phones.

As I sat behind my laptop, I pondered, what would my first topic be. The more I thought, the more confused I got. Topics to write on drifted into my head but I stubbornly wished them away. First impressions matter a lot. I was looking for a topic that would catch the attention of virtually everybody and hold them till the end. I even pondered more.I wondered; do I write on the presidential monologue and his exclusion of preservation of our cultural heritage in his manifesto or do I write on the political class’ blatant ignorance on both tourism and culture yet they travel to other countries to relax and throw tax payers’ money around. But I waved them aside; it was too early in the day to start mudslinging. Let us give the new breed a chance before the attack starts, I mused.

There is always a first time; a first impression; a first day at school, a first girlfriend or a first boyfriend ...Yes. I got it! My first kiss.  When was it? Was it a stolen kiss or a French kiss?

The memories came drifting back. I smiled.

It was way back in the mid 80s. I vividly remember. I was 10 or thereabout. I was in a group of three boys.  Though they were older than I was, they had already had some form of kissing or romancing experience and were proud of it. They taunted me at any opportunity and called me a virgin.

We had cultural festivals which brought everybody together, at least once in a year. It was known as the Ibo Uzo. Literally speaking it was our form of new yam festival and it was celebrated during the new moon of October.   It was a big cultural carnival that saw everybody both old and young dressed in some form of  cultural attire dance to the market square where the traditional ruler would come out and join in the fanfare. From the market square, people retire to their homes to entertain guests who came to make merry with them. 

Part of the delicacies the guests would enjoy is mkpurusu .  It is grinded melon (egusi) mixed with sauces and chili (more of chili), moulded into flat balls, wrapped in plantain leaves and cooked. Some people like it cold; some people like it warm but the mkpurusu is best served with a bottle of fresh palm wine to get the true taste of the snack.

On the night of the Ibo Uzo, my friends had all gone to bed. I was alone eavesdropping into elders’ discussions when she tapped me softly.  As I looked at her, my heart skipped two beats. The smile on her face made breathing even hard for me. Tiny beads of sweat started appearing on my forehead. (Thank God it was dark so she could see none of these). I joined her behind my father’s milk –coloured peugot 504. She didn’t wait or try to surprise me. She gave me the mkprurusu and I was very happy.  She watched me as I opened it broke the thick ball into two and gave her half of it. Her smile broadened and she now relaxed as we sat side by side with the car shielding us. 

She broke some of hers and gave it to me to eat. I didn’t expect it but I bravely took it in my mouth. (Then I thought that particular piece I ate from her hand was the sweetest, maybe she had honey in her hand!) I did not hesitate to reciprocate the gesture as she eagerly opened her mouth in wait. I cut a tiny piece and put it inside her mouth like brides and bride grooms do.  She chewed a little and held my face in her hands. By now the tiny beads of sweat had disappeared. My confidence came back. She brushed her lips on mine softly. But I encouraged her. I took her lips in mine and held it for a long while. It was soft, warm and we didn’t want to let go. We stayed like that for eternity. The soft noises the kisses made didn’t matter to us. Suddenly we heard her name. Her aunt had come looking for her. We disengaged and came out. I took her through our backyard to her house without her aunt seeing us. Back on my bed, sleep eluded me as I felt that sensuous and soft lips on my mouth and prayed that such traditions and festivities be kept alive every day so I could hold her more and feel her touch and kiss her lips.

Fast forward to 2011, I feel that the celebrations should continue because these cultures and traditions are going extinct and if nothing is done to continue it, our languages might be extinct. We would have nothing to share with our children as our cultural identity, cultural heritage etc.

As    Igor Stravinsky, in Poetics of Music, (Paris, 1952) stated:  

“A  true  tradition  is  not  the  witness  of  a  remote  past;  it  is  a  living  force  that  enlivens  and  nourishes  the  present.  Far  from  a  mere  repetition  of  what  has  gone  before,  a  tradition  is  an  on‐going  reality.  It  can  be  considered  as  family  property,  a  heritage  one  receives  on  the  condition  that  it  be  allowed  to  fructify  before  its  transmission  to  future  generations”.

We need to keep the torch alive for the generations unborn. We need to tell them this is where our fore fathers started, this is where we took it from them and this is what we give to you. Save our culture that our heirs and heiresses would have a common ground to identify us as ONE.

I berth.                                                                                 

Chukwudi