Okonkwo and his fellow prisoners were set free as soon as the fine was paid. The District Commissioner spoke to
them again about the great queen, and about peace and good government. But the men did not listen. They just sat and looked at him and at his interpreter. In the end they were given back their bags and sheathed machetes and told to go home. They rose and left the courthouse. They neither spoke to anyone nor among themselves.
The courthouse, like the church, was built a little way outside the village. The footpath that linked them was a very busy one because it also led to the stream, beyond the court. It was open and sandy. Footpaths were open and sandy in the dry season. But when the rains came the bush grew thick on either side and closed in on the path. It was now dry season.
As they made their way to the village the six men met women and children going to the stream with their waterpots. But the men wore such heavy and fearsome looks that the women and children did not say “nno” or “welcome” to them, but edged out of the way to let them pass. In the village little groups of men joined them until they became a sizable company. They walked silently. As each of the six men got to his compound, he turned in, taking some of the crowd with him. The village was astir in a silent, suppressed way.
Ezinma had prepared some food for her father as soon as news spread that the six men would be released. She took it to him in his obi. He ate absent-mindedly. He had no appetite; he only ate to please her. His male relations and friends had gathered in his obi, and Obierika was urging him to eat. Nobody else spoke, but they
noticed the long stripes on Okonkwo’s back where the warder’s whip had cut into his flesh.
The village crier was abroad again in the night. He beat his iron gong and announced that another meeting would be held in the morning. Everyone knew that Umuofia was at last going to speak its mind about the things that were happening.
Okonkwo slept very little that night. The bitterness in his heart was now mixed with a kind of childlike excitement. Before he had gone to bed he had brought down his war dress, which he had not touched since his return from exile. He had shaken out his smoked ra a skirt and examined his tall feather head-gear and his shield. They were all satisfactory, he had thought.
As he lay on his bamboo bed he thought about the treatment he had received in the white man’s court, and he swore vengeance. If Umuofia decided on war, all would be well. But if they chose to be cowards he would go out and avenge himself. He thought about wars in the past. The noblest, he thought, was the war against Isike. In those days Okudo was still alive. Okudo sang a war song in a way that no other man could. He was not a fighter, but his voice turned every man into a lion.
“Worthy men are no more,” Okonkwo sighed as he remembered those days. “Isike will never forget how we slaughtered them in that war. We killed twelve of their men and they killed only two of ours. Before the end of the fourth market week they were suing for peace. Those were days when men were men.”
As he thought of these things he heard the sound of the iron gong in the distance. He listened carefully, and could just hear the crier’s voice. But it was very faint. He turned on his bed and his back hurt him. He ground his teeth. The crier was drawing nearer and nearer until he passed by Okonkwo’s compound.
“The greatest obstacle in Umuofia,” Okonkwo thought bitterly, “is that coward, Egonwanne. His sweet tongue can change fire into cold ash. When he speaks he moves our men to impotence. If they had
ignored his womanish wisdom five years ago, we would not have come to this.” He ground his teeth. “Tomorrow he will tell them that our fathers never fought a ‘war of blame.’ If they listen to him I shall leave them and plan my own revenge.”
The crier’s voice had once more become faint, and the distance had taken the harsh edge off his iron gong. Okonkwo turned from one side to the other and derived a kind of pleasure from the pain his back gave him. “Let Egonwanne talk about a war of blame tomorrow and I shall show him my back and head.” He ground his teeth.
The marketplace began to fill as soon as the sun rose. Obierika was waiting in his obi when Okonkwo came along and called him. He hung his goatskin bag and his sheathed machete on his shoulder and went out to join him. Obierika’s hut was close to the road and he saw every man who passed to the marketplace. He had exchanged greetings with many who had already passed that morning.
When Okonkwo and Obierika got to the meeting place there were already so many people that if one threw up a grain of sand it would not find its way to the earth again. And many more people were coming from every quarter of the nine villages. It warmed Okonkwo’s heart to see such strength of numbers. But he was looking for one man in particular, the man whose tongue he dreaded and despised so much.
“Can you see him?” he asked Obierika. “Who?”
“Egonwanne,” he said, his eyes roving from one corner of the huge marketplace to the other. Most of the men sat on wooden stools they had brought with them.
“No,” said Obierika, casting his eyes over the crowd. “Yes, there he is, under the silk-cotton tree. Are you afraid he would convince us not to fight?”
“Afraid? I do not care what he does to you. I despise him and those who listen to him. I shall fight alone if I choose.”
They spoke at the top of their voices because everybody was talking, and it was like the sound of a great market.
“I shall wait till he has spoken,” Okonkwo thought. “Then I shall speak.”
“But how do you know he will speak against war?” Obierika asked after a while.
“Because I know he is a coward,” said Okonkwo. Obierika did not hear the rest of what he said because at that moment somebody touched his shoulder from behind and he turned round to shake hands and exchange greetings with five or six friends. Okonkwo did not turn round even though he knew the voices. He was in no mood to exchange greetings. But one of the men touched him and asked about the people of his compound.
“They are well,” he replied without interest.
The first man to speak to Umuofia that morning was Okika, one of the six who had been imprisoned. Okika was a great man and an orator. But he did not have the booming voice which a first speaker must use to establish silence in the assembly of the clan. Onyeka had such a voice; and so he was asked to salute Umuofia before Okika began to speak.
“Umuofia kwenu!” he bellowed, raising his left arm and pushing the air with his open hand.
“Yaa!” roared Umuofia.
“Umuofia kwenu!” he bellowed again, and again and again, facing a new direction each time. And the crowd answered, “Yaa!”
There was immediate silence as though cold water had been poured on a roaring flame.
Okika sprang to his feet and also saluted his clansmen four times.
Then he began to speak:
“You all know why we are here, when we ought to be building our barns or mending our huts, when we should be putting our
compounds in order. My father used to say to me: ‘Whenever you see a toad jumping in broad daylight, then know that something is after its life.” When I saw you all pouring into this meeting from all the quarters of our clan so early in the morning, I knew that something was after our life.” He paused for a brief moment and then began again:
“All our gods are weeping. Idemili is weeping, Ogwugwu is weeping, Agbala is weeping, and all the others. Our dead fathers are weeping because of the shameful sacrilege they are suffering and the abomination we have all seen with our eyes.” He stopped again to steady his trembling voice.
“This is a great gathering. No clan can boast of greater numbers or greater valor. But are we all here? I ask you: Are all the sons of Umuofia with us here?” A deep murmur swept through the crowd.
“They are not,” he said. “They have broken the clan and gone their several ways. We who are here this morning have remained true to our fathers, but our brothers have deserted us and joined a stranger to soil their fatherland. If we fight the stranger we shall hit our brothers and perhaps shed the blood of a clansman. But we must do it. Our fathers never dreamed of such a thing, they never killed their brothers. But a white man never came to them. So we must do what our fathers would never have done. Eneke the bird was asked why he was always on the wing and he replied: ‘Men have learned to shoot without missing their mark and I have learned to fly without perching on a twig.’ We must root out this evil. And if our brothers take the side of evil we must root them out too. And we must do it now. We must bale this water now that it is only ankle- deep….”
At this point there was a sudden stir in the crowd and every eye was turned in one direction. There was a sharp bend in the road that led from the marketplace to the white man’s court, and to the stream beyond it. And so no one had seen the approach of the five court messengers until they had come round the bend, a few paces from the edge of the crowd. Okonkwo was sitting at the edge.
He sprang to his feet as soon as he saw who it was. He confronted the head messenger, trembling with hate, unable to utter a word. The man was fearless and stood his ground, his four men lined up behind him.
In that brief moment the world seemed to stand still, waiting. There was utter silence. The men of Umuofia were merged into the mute backcloth of trees and giant creepers, waiting.
The spell was broken by the head messenger. “Let me pass!” he ordered.
“What do you want here?”
“The white man whose power you know too well has ordered this meeting to stop.”
In a flash Okonkwo drew his machete. The messenger crouched to avoid the blow. It was useless. Okonkwo’s machete descended twice and the man’s head lay beside his uniformed body.
The waiting backcloth jumped into tumultuous life and the meeting was stopped. Okonkwo stood looking at the dead man. He knew that Umuofia would not go to war. He knew because they had let the other messengers escape. They had broken into tumult instead of action. He discerned fright in that tumult. He heard voices asking: “Why did he do it?”
He wiped his machete on the sand and went away.
