A Cry of Innocence: A Modern-Day Witch Hunt - Softcover

Ubaka, Stan-Collins

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1475947607 ISBN 13: 9781475947601

Publisher: iUniverse, 2012

Synopsis

For Ijeoma, it's an ordinary afternoon. She's curled up in a comfy chair, reading a novel, and enjoying her time off from school. Then her mother storms into the room and asks a question that will change the teenage girl's life forever: "Are you a witch" Dumbfounded by the ridiculous charge, Ijeoma further learns that her classmate, a beautiful young girl named Adaugo, is dead. But before she died, Adaugo confessed to being a witch, and claimed that Ijeoma was one, as well. Ijeoma vehemently denies this charge, but her mother does not believe her. Worse, neither does her beloved father. Their entire Nigerian village soon hears of the charge, and Ijeoma is judged accordingly. Helpless, vulnerable, naïve, and inexperienced, Ijeoma is abandoned by her loved ones and forced to face the indignities of those who want her punished. But in the midst of the ashes of her life, Ijeoma clings to her faith and determines to discover the truth behind the deceit. Intense and thought-provoking, A Cry of Innocence reveals the tragic consequences suffered by those falsely accused and serves as a stark reminder of society's responsibility to the truth.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Cry of Innocence

A Modern-Day Witch HuntBy Stan-Collins Ubaka

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Stan-Collins Ubaka
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4760-1

Chapter One

I was lost in the fantasy of a novel while relaxing on a cushioned chair when Mum stormed into the room and screamed at me. The novel told the story of a boy whom misfortune had turned into an orphan through the sudden and mysterious death of his parents. Mum's disheveled appearance startled me, but I was taken aback by the disturbing question she threw at me: "Are you a witch?" At first, I thought I hadn't heard her right and so just stared at her like a moron.

"Are you dumb? I say are you a witch?" she asked again. This time, it brought the reality of her question to bear on my consciousness. However, I still doubted that she'd voiced exactly what she'd meant to say because I couldn't imagine Mum throwing such a question at me. The first time I heard about witches, it was from a movie I had watched where people turned into different creatures and sucked human blood. That night, I had dreamt that creatures were pursuing me. I had screamed so loudly that my parents heard me and rushed to find out what was amiss. When I told them about my nightmare, they hissed and went back to their room.

My response to Mum's question was prolonged laughter. My initial thought was to wave it off as a joke, but still, I managed to swallow every possible unpleasant feeling such a joke could naturally instill because it had come from my mother! I desperately willed Mum to join me in the laughter, but my voice was the only one I heard. I raised my eyes to observe her face, and what I saw weakened me. It was a mixed expression of anger and disappointment.

"Mum, what's the matter?" I asked.

"Everything is the matter!" she retorted.

Then, pointing her index finger at me, she threatened, "See, I'm going into my room now because I want to give you time to think about this. By the time I come back, you must provide an answer to my question, or else be ready to face the music." She walked away, slamming the door behind her.

A chill ran down my spine. I stood up. I sat down. I stood up again. Two voices were conspicuously audible in my mind. Mum is joking, one voice said. Mum sounds serious; perhaps she has heard something somewhere, insisted the other.

I picked up the novel to continue from where I had stopped, but my hands were shaking uncontrollably. My eyes were already welling up with tears. I threw the novel on the floor, and with my eyes fixed to the ceiling, my thoughts drifted to my school. I imagined I was writing an examination, after which I came out tops and was awarded a prize for it. The sound of footsteps outside the doorway put a hold on my musing. I thought it was Mum and so braced myself for battle when my little sister, Okwukwe, walked in. She was the last child in my family, a girl of six with the wisdom and intelligence of a grown-up, People often related with her as if she were an adult. She was topless, adorned with a red skirt that had holes at the back. Around her neck hung a black thread to which was tied a white cowry shell; a native doctor had ordered her to always wear this shell. She had once been very sick. Everyone feared she wouldn't survive the sickness. The native doctor whom Mum and Dad had consulted had explained that she was a reincarnation of Dad's grandmother and that the sickness was a sign that she should be celebrated. The cowry that was tied to the thread around her neck had been the only antidote to the sickness.

Okwukwe's eyes met mine and she smiled, but I did not return the smile. Being the outspoken type, she asked why I did not return her smile and then drew close to sit on the floor beside me. She looked up again into my eyes and saw the tears that had formed there, and then she probed further, "Ijeoma, what is the matter?"

I stood up. I felt the urge to cry but swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. I was overcome by a great deal of emotion that seemed to have taken over my whole being.

When I could no longer stomach the thoughts running through my mind, I went to meet Mum in her bedroom, to discuss the issue further and, most importantly, prove my innocence. She was sitting on the bed with her arms folded over her chest, her eyes fixed on the wall. I sat beside her.

"Mum, what's the matter? You sounded very strange."

"Yes, because I only discovered today that you are a strange child." Those words fell on me like a hammer. This couldn't be a joke any longer—Mum seemed very serious. I was about to ask her to explain further when she continued, "My daughter, you must tell me the truth please. This morning, I went to Mr. Ogude's house to sympathise with them over the death of their only daughter, Adaugo."

My heart stopped beating for a second when I heard that Adaugo had died. She had been my classmate since my second year in primary school. She would have been a year ahead of me in school but was asked to repeat a class because of her small stature. She was extraordinarily beautiful and was often referred to as an angel by our English teacher.

"What? Adaugo is dead?" I exclaimed. A sudden coldness gripped me.

Mum was motionless. "According to her mother, before she died, she had confessed that she was a witch."

"A what?" I screamed, almost falling off the bed. I tried to imagine Adaugo turning into a cat—or any other creature, for that matter—or drinking human blood, the way I had seen witches do in movies.

Mum glared at me. "The most serious issue for me," she said, beating her chest, "is that Adaugo's mother claimed she had told them that you too are a witch." Mum's words took awhile to sink into my mind, and for some time, it seemed as if she were talking to herself.

"What? Who? How?" I blabbed. At this point, I couldn't explain what I was feeling. I could never imagine anyone ever being a witch, and here I was being labeled one.

"You heard me right," Mum retorted. "All I demand from you now is the truth. Nothing but the truth."

"Mum, I'm innocent of this allegation—"

"Innocent indeed," Mum hissed, turning her face away from me.

"Mum, believe me. I don't even know how it feels to be a witch."

"Wait, I'll show you." Mum stood up and walked toward me. My instinct did not prepare me for what came next: the caustic sting of a slap on my left cheek. Another heavy blow landed on my head and then on my back and my stomach. "You must tell me the truth. You must tell me the truth. I'm your mother," Mum chanted as she unleashed terror on my body.

I ducked to escape the cascading blows. My head hit the doorknob in the process, and I fell back, hitting my buttocks on the floor. Mum bent forward to trap me on the floor, but she moved too late. I dashed outside immediately. My eyes were overflowing with tears at this point. I felt a sharp pain on my head and realised there was a swelling. Then it gave way: the sob I had been fighting for so long to keep from exploding. I wailed uncontrollably and angrily. I felt wetness around my lower region and realised I had wet myself. Mum's voice riveted the entire compound. "If you're not ready to say the truth, don't come into this house."

My screams must have attracted one of our neighbours, Chigozie, who lived right across the street from us. He bounced in on us with a cutlass in his right hand like someone on a rescue mission. "What is happening here? Young girl, what makes you cry?"

I was too choked up in my tears to answer him. By this time, Mum had let go of me and gone back into her room. Chigozie stared at me, apparently waiting for an answer. When he got none, he went back out. Okwukwe and my younger brother Ikechukwu stood in front of me, with sullen looks. At that moment, Okwukwe flattened her body on mine, slipped her right arm around my neck, and said, "Take heart, everything will be fine." Ikechukwu, older than Okwukwe by three years, wasn't able to demonstrate how he felt, although I knew he was really sad. He merely stared at me. He took after Dad, who also lacked emotional demonstration.

I looked at my wristwatch. It was almost time for Dad to return from school. He was an English teacher in Agbor Grammar School. Although schools were on holiday for the long vacation, Dad and some other senior teachers had to go to school from time to time to prepare the curriculum for another term. In that instant, I was not sure what his reaction would be regarding Mum's story. Would he believe her? Whatever, I longed for him to come home; perhaps, fortune would make him take sides with me.

Ikechukwu sighed deeply and spoke through gritted teeth. "Ijeoma, what is the matter? Why is Mum shouting at you?"

"Mum says I'm a witch."

For the first time, I saw Ikechukwu react to his feelings. He screamed, placing both of his hands on his head in an expression of surprise. Just like me, Ikechukwu too could not fathom the idea of anybody being a witch. We often expressed our deep resentment for witchcraft and all it represented by wishing and hoping for its total extinction, because of all the gory stories we had been told over the years about them, all confirming and adding to what we had gathered from the movie. We were told that they were agents of the Devil and used their powers to harm people and that they lived on human flesh and blood. On her part, Okwukwe was too young to comprehend what witches were all about, but she knew they were bad people. Bringing me out of my reverie, Ikechukwu asked, "Why does Mum make such a joke?"

"I—" Before I could answer, we heard a voice calling from the front yard.

"Ikechukwu!"

Dad was back.

Chapter Two

I managed to pull myself to the entrance of the sitting room, where I halted with my entire body weight resting on my left foot. I looked at my fingers as I slowly picked at the dirt from my nails. I didn't want to look up but I knew Dad and Mum were sitting on the long bench beside the cushion chair, with their heads touching as if they were renewing their love for each other. Dad, being a good story teller, knew well how to sustain a conversation for as long as he wanted. I remember when I was much younger how Dad would gather all of us around him and reel off folk tales like why the lizard nods its head and why a tortoise's back is cracked, amongst others. I was torn between going to meet Dad and remaining at the door where I had halted. There was no debate in my mind that moving forward to welcome Dad was the better thing to do, but my crash with Mum made that decision difficult to make. Had Mum told him I was a witch?

"Oh, baby, you're here!" Dad exclaimed.

I did not speak but only nodded my head. The combined feeling that Dad must have believed Mum's story and the terrible allegation against me probably made me dumb. I did not even remember to say a welcome to Dad. My eyes were still glued to my fingers. Dad must have wondered at my uneasiness and the dried tear stains on my cheeks. He walked toward me and pulled me over to himself. Buried in the warmth of Dad's bosom, I was overwhelmed by a strong emotion that hit me. At that instance, I allowed the memory of years back to take hold of me. I remembered then the first clash he and Mum had had over some strange lady ...

* * *

It was on a weekend. Dad had taken me to a fast food joint on my ninth birthday. It was a yearly ritual he rarely missed. On this fateful day, he had stopped in front of a big red house, some distance away from the Mr. Biggs eatery. However, it wasn't the first time we would "branch" during an outing. I remember him pulling his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and dialing a number. I peeped to see who he was calling. "Cynthia" popped out on the screen. A short while later, a fair complexioned slim girl scuttled out of the gate of the red house with a smile spread all over her face. She threw her arms apart and locked Dad up in a warm embrace that lasted far more than it should have. Usually, whenever we children returned from an outing with Dad, Mum would ask how many people we greeted, whose houses we entered, and whose phone numbers Dad called. I never quite understood why she asked but I told her everything. So on this day, Dad and I had stayed out longer than usual. This time, he went a little overboard. We didn't just halt in front of this red house, but he made us walk into the compound.

"Dad, where are we going?" I had asked.

He hushed me up and prompted me to follow him.

Dad asked me to wait in the sitting room while he walked into one of the rooms with the girl clinging to his side. I had sat there for what seemed like eternity waiting for Dad. I did not know what they were doing, but I knew they were doing something bad. I heard the girl scream like she was being injected by a mean doctor, but Dad's chuckles revealed nothing but pleasure. When Dad finally came out, he looked rumpled. His tie hung around his neck, instead of in a knot, and the white shirt he had tucked into his trousers was pulled out. Everything about him seemed rough. The first thought that went through my naive mind was that Dad had been involved in a fight, and I felt for him. He flopped into a sofa and breathed heavily, while the skinny girl fidgeted with Dad's phone. I hated what she was doing but did not challenge her. I began to help Dad tuck in back his shirt. He reeked so badly of alcohol. A few minutes after, we were ready to go home.

As soon as Mum saw us, she pulled me into a corner and asked the usual questions: Who did we visit? Who did Daddy call? etc. And of course, I sang like a canary, oblivious of its repercussion. And then it happened. It was as if a thousand demons had been let loose. She screamed and raved like a lunatic, telling everyone in the compound who cared to listen that her husband was a womaniser. I was in total shock. She had never reacted this way to my tattle-telling. When our neighbours asked why she referred to him as such, she said I had revealed it to her. Dad was so mad at me that he never took me out again.

* * *

"Baby, what makes you cry?" Dad asked again, jolting me out of my reverie.

I tried to speak but there were more tears in my eyes than there were words in my mouth. I babbled something I knew Dad could not understand. He bent over, putting his ear at my mouth level so he could hear me clearly. I sucked in some air and explained again, "Mum called me a witch!"

"When? Why?" Dad asked, flashing Mum an accusing look.

"I was waiting for a more fitting time to tell you about it," Mum said.

"Waiting for a more fitting time to tell me about what?" Dad asked.

"I'm sorry, dear, let's talk about it now then."

I sat beside Dad, listening to Mum recount the episode between her and Adaugo's mum. "Ears are not tired of hearing wonders! Too many things these days cause the heart to beat faster." Mum paused a moment and demonstrated what she had just said by placing her right palm under her chin and opening her eyes wide. "I must say that I'm totally taken aback by what I heard today." Dad fixed his gaze intently at the floor. "I had gone to express my condolence to Obiageli and Ogude over the death of their only daughter, Adaugo, only to be greeted by a misfortune." Mum sucked in some air and made as if she wanted to cry and then continued, "Every woman that has been delivered of a baby, and that has milked one, will understand what I felt when Adaugo's mother told me what her daughter had said on her deathbed. That she was a witch and that Ijeoma is a witch, too."

Dad broke into a cackle that trailed off with an expression of incredulity. He scowled at her and snapped, "And you believed her?" Mum stared at him blandly. "You know that I don't believe women's gossip. They mean one thing but say another. That is why I won't believe you people."

"You've come again with this gender bias thing. The issue at hand is far more complicated than the triviality you are giving it. Meanwhile, Ogude was there when Obiageli was saying it. Is he too a woman or do you take his words?"

"Did you say Ogude was ...?"

"Yes, he even has his own convictions about the matter."

"I must go and confirm for myself. I refuse to be finagled." With that, Dad rose and went out.

Chapter Three

"I jeoma, you can see that all arrows of allegation are shooting at you. My findings from Ogude and his wife revealed that Adaugo really named you a witch. Could she who stood at death's door and was certain she was going to give up have named you falsely?"

I stood on shaky feet before my father and mother. I wondered at the twist of events. I knew Dad had been on my side before he left the house for Ogude's house. What had Ogude told Dad and how did he do it? my mind questioned.

"Why did you refuse to say the truth when your mum asked you?" Dad queried.

Knowing that the music had taken a different beat, I immediately trained my mind to be strong and my voice to be tough. This was necessary because I had suddenly become my only defense.

"But I told her the truth!" I snapped.

"What truth did you tell her?"

"That I'm not a witch."

"Look at me!" Dad said in a low, deep voice.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Cry of Innocenceby Stan-Collins Ubaka Copyright © 2012 by Stan-Collins Ubaka. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: iUniverse
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1475947607
• ISBN 13: 9781475947601
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 108