King Opokunabo walked into his royal chambers with the precise, ordained and ritual steps bred into him when he was first acknowledged as the heir apparent. Today, he was going to receive the British Consul, Sir Japhet Hooper. They had known each other since his father’s reign when he was heir apparent and they had formed a serious friendship, and were about the same age. Back then, Hooper was the captain of a British slaver, the Jolly Guinea. Prince Opokunabo was his major supplier, since as the heir apparent, he had monopoly of the Imo River slave route held on behalf of his father that extended until the port of Bonny. With his good friend, he had planned and dreamed of how he would modernize and expand the slave trade when he took over at his father’s death, which both knew wouldn’t be long in occurring. However, by 1825 when he finally became the Amanyanabo of Bonny Kingdom, things had changed.
Since the year 1807, the rumour had been filtering into Bonny that the slave trade had been banned by the British, Bonny’s closest trade ally, but the reality in the various seaports that dotted his domain and beyond proved that the stories remained rumours. The trade in slavery, instead of diminishing, was in full swing with British ships still at the forefront of successful slave merchants. By 1825, his friend, Hooper, no longer a slaver, had been made the British Consul for the Bight of Biafra. He looked forward to this special visit and prepared as a king and ruler of the most flamboyant and prosperous kingdom in the Niger Delta could. He pulled all stops to impress his friend. He had another reason also why he laid out a great reception. In his palace already was a large trade delegation from the interior of the Igbo country. He feared the Igbos and wanted to show off his British friends in order to possibly intimidate them with his power and grandeur.
The earth-shattering sound of the single salvo from his new Spanish cannon told him the expected august visitor had arrived and was docked in the royal seaport. Immediately the friendly response came from the British Consul’s man-of-war that accompanied Sir Japhet Hooper. The royal drummers on cue started the royal march as the king once more came down from the royal throne and moved majestically in rhythm with the drums toward the royal quay. Leading the royal procession where fifty maidens dressed in royal robes with glittering ebony faces and elaborate hair-do’s made up in the latest style with black threads from England. The king smiled to himself as he watched from the corner of his eyes the dancing naked breasts of the maidens in all imaginable shapes with their nipples pointing this way and that as they danced. His queen had asked pertinent questions with raised eyebrows when the king gave instructions on the nature of the reception he planned for his friend. He knew the Consul’s preference in women. They had argued ceaselessly about white and black women in the past. Hooper had a free range of choice between black maidens from his slave chattel and some costal women always ready for a quick bivouac, if the white man had enough manila and mirrors or fine linen. He, the king, had swallowed the excess saliva his throat produced when Hooper told him of countless wonders white women did to their men, if properly tuned on. Since white women never ventured on the dangerous Atlantic sea passage, he swallowed more and more saliva and dreamed of impossible sexual fantasies.
As the royal entourage progressed, all citizens who saw them made obeisance with heads bowed in the royal direction, or with their right knees touching the earth. The king moved on gracefully, acknowledging the greetings and reverence of his subjects with his flywhisk. From a few poles away, he could see Sir Japhet Hooper clearly in his resplendent official attire, a blue jacket over a black flannel trouser with white stripes on both sides. The jacket was encrusted with the royal coat of arms of England and his magnificent epaulettes on his shoulders glittered in the early morning suns. His golden sword inside a white scabbard was attached firmly to his waist with a white belt, clearly differentiating him from his officials and sailors on the ship deck. Of all the white men he had seen, he had developed a special likeness for the British. He hated the Portuguese more than the French and the Spaniards, in that order. Most of the Portuguese in Bonny were as poor as some of his subjects, in fact most had taken native wives and had homes in Bonny and neighbouring kingdoms producing a miscegenation that had become the butt of jokes.
He stood at a royal distance from the British ship and waited for the beginning of the diplomatic ceremonies which he had inherited. A British band with their shiny drums and cymbals disembarked first, followed closely in formation by twelve riflemen of the British East India Company, and finally by the Consul at who’s back marched a robot-like soldier carrying the Union Jack. The head of the royal guards, as if he did not want to be beaten in the subtle diplomatic war, marshalled his twelve broad-chested ebony guards carrying broad silver-curved machetes in their left hands while their right hands clutched their newly -acquired Blunderbrushes, part of discarded American war armoury sold to them by the Spaniards.
The king was quite impatient with what he had referred to as useless ceremonies and waited expectantly to be alone with his old friend and possibly indulge in their usual orgy of wine and women. He sucked his tongue and a smile creased his lips as he remembered the last episode inside the Captains’ quarters of his friend’s huge slave ship, the Quirinal.
Sir Japhet Hooper was a very generous man and that probably was one of the reasons why he struck up a serious friendship with the then heir-apparent, now King Opokunabo, another generous spirit. He arrived at the palace with a trunkload of gifts. After the official exchange of gifts between the two powers, Hooper started circulating around the spacious meeting room distributing gifts to all the chiefs assembled, to the utter admiration of the king. He has not changed, the king murmured. Silver trinkets were given to some for their wives, mirrors of fine simple craft were distributed, rainbow-coloured flannels, including court jesters’ multi-coloured turbans which were in vogue in the region were quickly grabbed. The chiefs thanked their regal visitor profusely, and the king thanked him some more and was very pleased that his old friend was back in the Bonny waters. He had already assembled an assortment of gifts the Consul would appreciate, and the ones he would enjoy while his stay lasted.
Exchange of gifts had remained part of the diplomatic exchange between Europe and Africa and usually took place before any serious engagement started. This, on the European side, was to assuage the Africans to be amenable to the probable demands they would like to make; and their demands never stopped. They knew it was always difficult for their African partners to discount gifts once they had accepted them, even when they could not carry out the demands made of them.
The head chief of the king, after what seemed a good respite, called the people to order. “Our great king, Amanyenabo Dappa Perekule Opokunabo the First, Warrior Lord of the Oil Rivers, King of Bonny who sits on the revered throne of his fathers, the owner of our lives, we greet you. To our dear friend, Consul Japhet Hooper, we offer greetings from the people of Bonny kingdom. We were gladdened when we got the good news that our own dear friend, a titled chief of our great kingdom, had been made the general consul of the entire Bight of Biafra; we have been expecting you and your entourage since the very day your messengers came six months ago with the news of your intending visit. We are happy the gods of your land brought you here safely. The king and the chiefs of all the canoe houses of the kingdom are here and are all ears to hear the message you have brought from your great Queen, the woman ruler of white men.”
At this, all the natives, including the king laughed, wondering how a woman could be ruling such wonderful people like the white men. The head chief had concluded years ago when he first heard the white men were ruled by a woman she could not be an ordinary woman, and was probably the mermaid queen, since they came from the unending waters of the ocean.
Japhet Hooper was not keen in reading out the letter from the Queen, because for one thing he already knew the content by heart; he wished to be at any other place than where he was standing. With his hands already shaking, he opened the Queen’s missive. While his companions had drunk from the English brandy the king offered them, he had tried to inure himself with a generous consumption of the native liquor whose alcoholic content was much higher than that of the brandy. But no matter how long he dillydallied, the memorandum must be read out to his friend, the king of Bonny.
“To the head of the Annapepple House, king of Bonny, greetings from Her Majesty the Queen of England, head of the British Empire, conqueror of India, governor-general of Canada and Australia….,” he eyed his half-Portuguese half-native interpreter to make sure he was emphasizing each title, because he had told him earlier to do exactly that. His listeners were not amused, they looked on with an unreadable deadpan faces; they could be experts at subterfuge, he remembered and plunged on: “Confirmed information available to us from slave ships and slaves we have rescued from the high seas indicates the majority of them came from the Bonny Rivers. You are aware that Her Majesty’s government had prohibited the dealings in slaves and slavery as far back as 1807; by this memorandum which you are to sign and ratify, you have pledged that this obnoxious dealing in human chattel will no longer be associated with your domain, and more importantly, you are to make your port and local navy available for joint naval operations against neighbouring kingdoms and recalcitrant Europeans still engaged in this trade. You are hereby warned any deviation from this will be an invitation to a military action against your government and your kingdom….” Both Hooper and his interpreter were already sweating profusely by the time he got to the last paragraph. The interpreter swore soundlessly under his breath that had he known the content of the letter, he would not have volunteered to act as the interpreter, even if the British crown offered him all the money in the world. He touched his sweaty neck several times not because of the sweat, but to feel if it was still there. He wondered how long the unpredictable king who had a knack for extreme generosity and extreme brutality would allow his neck to remain attached to his body.
The agitated murmuring of the chiefs was cut short by the grave silence of the king. A graveyard silence ensured. Sir Hooper’s imagination ran wild. He raced through his memory to see if he could glean an idea of what the king’s reaction would be like. Would he consign their friendship to the dustbin and give his guards the order? He prayed for any other thing rather than the uncomfortable silence of the king. After what looked like a decade that made Hooper shrink half his size, the king’s reaction was sudden and completely unexpected when it came. He laughed and laughed so hard that tears ran from his eyes. That was not the reaction Sir Hooper expected. His mind quickly went through his options. His command ship was not heavily armed, while his man-o’war was under-manned. Besides, the rogue Spaniards had been selling heavy cannon to the king. He stood no chance.
The king stopped laughing and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. He cleared his throat, and breathed deeply before speaking. “Chief Hooper, representative of the Queen of England, you have made me sad this day, and I know that you know too well why you are still standing on your two feet. How dare you and your woman ruler give orders to his majesty, king of kings, ruler of the ancient Bonny kingdom and lord of the Bonny River? I know it is not your intention to insult my friendship with you and your people of England; after all, you are a mere messenger. I want you to take this back to your Queen, however: I do not want to see any British citizen set foot on this kingdom again on penalty of death, therefore Head of the guards,” Sir Hooper froze. “Head of the chiefs,” the king threatened menacingly, “take note of what I have decreed.” He turned back to his visitors, “Hundreds of years ago, when your people first came to us for trade, we were surprised at the trade goods you wanted: human beings! Didn’t our forefathers object to such a trade?” he asked no one in particular and continued without waiting for an answer. “But you were insistent. Have you ever heard that a man learns to use his left hand at old age? Slave it must be, I hereby decree. If the British are tired of slavery, we are not and thank the heavens your sister countries are not either. My chief, when are we to expect the Spaniard slavers?”
***
In spite of the great anger caused him, the king still gave his impressive visitor a royal banquet for old times’ sake. He regretted the ruined elaborate plans he had concocted for him and his friends’ benefit as they sat at an English table with his new enemies. The fresh palm wine flowing at the meal table brought back the ebullient nature of Sir Hooper, who talked and laughed lavishly and gesticulated. He pinched the generous behinds of the maidens that served him, especially the most beautiful of them all who hovered over him to make sure his plates and cup were constantly replenished. His most attentive serving maiden had the most gorgeous firm breasts he had ever seen in his over two decades of travelling the dark continent of Africa. Topless as all the women were, he had never got enough staring at their breasts that came in all imaginable and unimaginable shapes and sizes. Of all efforts to civilize the heathen, he dreaded the time when they would be made to cover up such wonderful gifts of nature like his fellow country women did. It was rare for one to see the breast of an European girl, even the prostitutes that were never far from all the seaports he had visited. One paid dearly just for a good look. Here he was in luxurious Africa with breasts dangling over him as the young maiden bent down, much closer this time around to pour a fresh, frothy cup of palm wine. He damned his official role as an officer of the ever-expanding British Empire. Life was surely better when he was a slaver and had the king as his best native friend. He swallowed hard.
Back in the royal kitchen, the maidens bickered among themselves, talking in barely-audible low tunes about the white men they were serving and the anticipation of what was to come after the party with the night. Timi, the maiden serving Sir Hooper, knew that she had already sunk her hooks inside the man’s innards from the way he had been lustfully staring at her. The universal coupling sign he had given her was well understood; she was now asking Priyor what to expect, since she was the only one among them who claimed she had slept with a white man. “Not at all, they are not like our men,” said Priyor, “it does not take them a second before they come. However, they can play all sorts of trick with your body, such that if you do not hold yourself you will scream down the thatched roof,” she whispered.
“Are you sure, what tricks? Tell me more.” Timi said.
“Hm, they can tell you to do things that the earth goddess will shudder at, can you imagine, the Potokiri told me to put his thing in my mouth.”
“Gods of our land, did you?”
“Hush, the Queen Mother is coming,” whispered one of the maidens. Absolute silennce reigned among the maidens.
The English dining table where the king and his guests were seated was a royal gift from a previous English ruler to his father the year he was crowned the Amanyanabo of Bonny. The mixture of palm wine, local whisky and its European counterpart had enlivened the free flow of discussion. Multiple interpreters where jostling from one part of the long dining table to the other to translate as fast as they could. They were not helped by the many ounces of alcohol they themselves had also imbibed. It was not everyday that they were invited to the king’s palace.
Hearing that the British were in town, the chief of the Aro slave traders who already had a large stack of orders from the king joined the party uninvited, looking for possible new business.
“Ah, Mazi Kalu Orji, I did not notice you were here,” said a bleary-eyed king.
“My king, is it possible to keep out an Aro when there is business in the air?” They all laughed at his joke, knowing how truthful he was.
“My friend here,” said the king,’ pointing at Hooper, “came with a letter from a mere woman ordering me, Amanyanabo, to stop my trade in slaves. Kalu, have you ever heard such nonsense before?”
“Not at all, great king! What do you expect when men allow a woman to rule them?” All the guests burst out laughing, except the Englanders who did not find the slur against their Queen very amusing.
“Sir Hooper, does she also rule you when she is heavily pregnant?” asked the head chief. They could not contain their laughter as some doubled over with the added effect of alcohol, laughing uncontrollably.
“But Kalu, on a serious note, I hope you brought good merchandise this time, the last set you brought caused me a fortune with almost half of them wearing the dreaded ichi marks. Haven’t I warned you not to bring such troublesome Igbo slaves?”
“Your Royal Majesty, I apologize once more. I brought what was in the hinterland market. I did not know there were ichi men and a Nri priest among them, it will not happen again. You need to see the new consignment I brought for you, very docile and well-behaved. They are from the hilly country in the far north of Igbo area, but not Hausas, the Hausas are another difficult group, especially the ones that knock their heads on the ground when they pray.”
“You mean the Muslim?” interjected Sir Hooper, “but who actually are these breechi people? I know they are of the Ebo tribe but they are totally different.”
“They are ichi and not breechi,” replied the king with mirth.
“Breechi or ee-chi, whatever, who the hell are they? They scare the hell out of slavers. Do you know that the few we managed to send to the Americas caused us unmitigated disasters of incalculable proportions? In fact, most of the problems we had from our American colonies were traceable to the breechi people, including the abolition of the slave trade that brought me here today,”
“Umhh, umhh, umhh,” the chief priest cleared his throat three times, loudly, drawing all eyes to him. He had as usual sat on his large alligator skin mat. The small frame and scary half-painted face of the fearsome priest was hidden by the broad bulk of the king. Even the king turned back with surprise written all over his face at the sudden intrusion.
“My chief priest, is everything ok?” The king asked in a subdued tone.
“Yes, your majesty, my son.” In spite of the proper sobriquet, he never failed to add ‘my son’ when addressing the king which irritated the King so much, he always sat behind the king at important meetings and deliberations to protect him from evil attacks from those possibly envious of his reign; kings have slumped dead at the middle of meetings in the past. The king had always made sure that his chief priest was always nearby. “Our people say when old bones are mentioned in a folktale, the aged become uncomfortable. You have surely mentioned old bones.”
“I do not understand,” said Mazi Kalu.
“Hush, son of Ibini-ukpabi! The spirits speak. A near-hush fell on the diners. “Ichi men are spirit beings who live among the Igbos. They are mostly identified at birth and the sacred mark given to them on their forehead. They are different from the beauty marks or mermaid marks you also find on some Igbos. If not identified in time, the spirit of their deity, Agwu, takes over the individual and creates havoc. It is from them that their dibias, priests and knowledgeable persons are chosen. Their bodies are consecrated when they are identified by the Nri priests and remain sacred till death, and even beyond death. Surely, your majesty, my son, you must have seen the Nri priests in our kingdom. No, it was when your father was a boy that the last of them came calling.”
“What brought him and how come they no longer visit us?” asked the king.
“It was your grandfather’s ill health that brought them; a long story not meant for foreigners, a story for another day, my son.” The noise of his crackling knuckles could be heard a mile away. All eyes were still focused on him and there was total silence. “The sons of Ibinu–ukpabi have had a long drawn-out battle with the sons of Nri,” he stopped, murmured to the spirits surrounding him and continued. “This great quarrel started when the Aros told the Igbos that Chukwu, the big God, had come down to the earth to live with them.”
“That sounds like our Christian doctrine of the coming of the son of God,” Hooper’s assistant whispered into his ear. His mind was not there, he had been bewitched by each word that came from the chief priest. He had always tried to understand the mystery behind the Nri and their ichi brethren. Besides, had he not been given a special secret assignment to keep his ears and eyes open and probe the natives about all possible Igbo gods and deities, especially the one called Ikenga? He held his breath.
“Instead of the great Igbo gods and deities, like Ihieafor who killed a man before the great Afor market day and Ogbunaorie who did the same before the great Orie market saw the break of dawn, the most dreaded one of them all, was the Ikenga. In spite of my wondering as a pupil learning the trades of my craft among the Igbos and our Ibibio brothers, it was only twice I heard the Igbos utter the sacred word, Ikenga. Mind you, not the Ikenga named after towns and villages that came with a partner called Ihitte. No, you won’t hear them mention that god. These were what the Aro sons of Ibinu-ukpabi have been trying to usurp for years.”
“This god, Ikenga….” Sir Hooper tried to join the conversation.
“Shut up, you little devil in a white skin, how dare you utter what you do not know or understand? Your skin cannot even be used to make a drum for the smallest of the river gods.” Hooper’s skin started crawling with goose pimples fighting for space to sprout under the direct stare of the chief priest. He remembered that just a nod from the chief priest to the king meant immediate execution and a possible sacrifice to their numerous ever-hungry gods. He waited unable to breathe praying the thought should not enter the mind of the chief priest.
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