Behind the clouds, p.1
Behind the Clouds, page 1
About Apollo Africa
The original Heinemann African Writers Series was launched in 1962 with the publication of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, Cyprian Ekwensi’s Burning Grass and Kenneth Kaunda’s Zambia Shall Be Free, with Achebe himself acting as an editorial advisor. Over the next 40 years, the series continued to publish the best writing from across the African continent.
One of the founding aims of the Heinemann series was to make books by African writers available to as wide a readership as possible. Apollo Africa – a collaboration between Black Star Books and Head of Zeus – is proud to continue this work, ensuring novels, essays, poetry and plays from the original series are once again made available to readers all over the world.
BEHIND THE CLOUDS
Ifeoma Okoye
Black Star Books and Head of Zeus would like to thank the following organisations: The Miles Morland Foundation, The Ford Foundation, and Africa No Filter. This publication was made possible through their support.
First published in the Longman African Writers Series in 1982 by Pearson Education Limited
This edition published in 2023 by Black Star Books and Head of Zeus, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
Copyright © Ifeoma Okoye, 1982
The moral right of Ifeoma Okoye to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This reprint is published by arrangement with Pearson Education Limited.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB): 9781035900732
ISBN (E): 9781803288437
Head of Zeus Ltd
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Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.
The Rainy Day,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
To my peerless and impeccable ‘Osiris’, with love
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Chapter One
Ije Apia arrived at the Blest Clinic at about half-past seven in the morning. A middle-aged cleaner who was dusting the panes of a window showed her the clinic’s waiting-room. Ije walked in quietly. A handful of patients were already in the room. Some of them were standing round the clinic’s clerk, waiting to be registered. Ije joined them and waited for her turn. When it came, she paid her registration fee to the clerk, obtained a receipt, a hospital card, and a numbered card. In spite of her early arrival she would be the seventeenth patient to see the doctor.
‘That will mean a long wait,’ Ije said under her breath as she put the registration card, the receipt and the numbered card into her handbag.
She walked past patients who were sitting dejectedly on a couple of long settees until she came to two empty armchairs at the end of the room. Here was what she wanted: a quiet place where she could sit undisturbed by other patients. With her handkerchief she dusted one of the armchairs and sat down in it to wait for her turn to see the doctor.
The waiting-room of the clinic was neat and clean – quite unlike the waiting-rooms of the other private clinics she had visited. The pale blue walls of the room were adorned with beautiful pictures and posters. There was a poster showing the different stages of foetal growth. There was another one on vitamins and the foodstuffs that contain them. A third poster was on child-care. Ije looked around her with silent approval.
Seconds later she was lost in thought, oblivious of the bustle in the waiting-room as more patients arrived and nurses strutted in and out. It was becoming increasingly difficult for her, especially when she was alone, to keep her mind off her predicament.
As Ije sat there, her mind plunged deep into the past: a past full of failures that still rankled. She remembered vividly all the doctors who had treated her – the tests, the minor operations, and the major one that had almost killed her. She remembered also the herbalists she had approached for help.
The first herbalist she had consulted had said she was an ogbanje from the river and her ogbanje mates were responsible for her problem.
‘Why are they against me?’ Ije had asked the herbalist.
‘Because you violated your joint vow not to marry,’ the herbalist had told her.
‘Can’t anything be done about it?’ Ije had inquired.
‘Yes, we can appease them with a sacrifice,’ was the herbalist’s reply.
Ije’s religious code could not at first be reconciled with the herbalist’s suggestion but her strong desire to overcome her problem had outweighed both her loyalty to her religion and her reason. With reluctance she had consented to offer the sacrifice. Months later, it became clear to her that the oblation was in vain and so also were the herbalist’s concoctions that she was made to drink.
Then there was the other herbalist who had attributed her problem to the evil machinations of her enemies. The herbalist had boasted that he knew the names of these enemies but had refused to disclose them. Instead, he had claimed to possess the powers to counteract their evil plans, and had extorted a large sum of money from her to ‘buy what he needed for his battle with the powers of evil’. Again nothing had come of this.
There was one herbalist who, Ije believed, could have done something for her, but she was too late. On her arrival at the man’s house, she was told that the man had died a week earlier. The herbalist, unfortunately, did not pass on his knowledge of herbs and roots to any of his sons because, according to him, none was pious or level-headed enough to be trusted with such knowledge.
Ije had been crestfallen to hear of the man’s death. ‘Why had I not known about this man earlier?’ she kept saying to herself throughout her journey home. It was at this time, when she was at the nadir of her hopes, that she learned of the ‘miracles’ wrought by one Dr Melie who had opened a clinic in town: ‘The Blest Clinic’. At first she was sceptical about seeing another doctor as her optimism had been eroded by her fruitless visits to so many doctors.
‘Paper!’ a newsvendor called, breaking into Ije’s thoughts and bringing her back to the present. ‘Madam, you want paper?’ The vendor was now standing in front of her.
‘Yes, give me a copy of New Nigerian,’ Ije said. ‘And a copy of Daily Times.’
‘I have some beautiful magazines, too,’ the newsvendor tried to coax her.
‘I don’t want anything more,’ Ije said and paid him for the newspapers.
As the vendor walked away, Ije began to scan the newspapers while she waited for her turn to see the doctor. Presently, she was interrupted by a fat woman who came and sat down in the armchair next to hers.
‘Good morning,’ the woman greeted her.
‘Good morning,’ Ije replied, lifting up her eyes and resting them on the woman. She had a short neck. Her small head rested on her shoulders and her large bosom rose and fell as she breathed heavily. She was extravagantly made up and was dressed in a flowered buba and lappa.
‘Is your name Ije ?’ the fat woman asked.
‘Yes,’ Ije replied. There was a blank look on her face as she gazed at the woman whom she did not recognise.
The fat woman noticed Ije’s bewilderment. ‘I won’t blame you for not recognising me,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve grown very fat – fat beyond recognition. But can’t you guess?’
Ije’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the woman. She tried again to recollect where she had seen her before but drew a blank. She gave up.
‘Honestly. I can’t remember who you are,’ she said apologetically. ‘My memory is like a sieve these days.’
‘You were once at A.C.M. Port Harcourt, weren’t you?’ the fat woman inquired.
‘Yes.’
‘And you were in Warner House?’
‘You’re right,’ Ije admitted.
‘Remember Beatrice? The sprinter? I was in class three when you were in four, I think.’
Ije’s face lit up with recognition. ‘Yes, I remember you now,’ she said. ‘But you were slimmer then.’
‘Yes, I was,’ Beatrice agreed. ‘I wish I had not grown so fat. My husband nags me day and night because of my obesity. That’s the word he uses to describe my condition. You live here in Enugu?’
‘Yes,’ Ije replied. ‘And you?’
‘My husband and I have just come to Enugu on transfer. We lived in Abakaliki until a few months ago.’
‘I see,’ Ije said, folding her newspapers and putting them away in her handbag.
‘Have you been here before?’ Beatrice asked.
‘You mean to this hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. This is my first time,’ Ije explained.
‘This is my first time, too. I understand this Dr Melie is very good.’
‘So I was told.’
‘Are you having trouble, too?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Yes,’ Ije replied. She wished she could stop the conversation. She was not used to discussing her personal problems with outsiders.
But Beatrice was one of those women who confide easily in people. She told Ije about her problems. She had been married for eight years without a child. She had been to many gynaecologists and to several herbalists but none had been able to help her.
‘My husband is very worried,’ Beatrice continued, mopping her face with a handkerchief. She was now sweating profusely even though it was not hot. Her large bosom rose and fell as she breathed heavily.
‘My husband is worried to death,’ Beatrice reiterated. ‘His parents, his relations, his friends, all keep on telling him to get himself another wife to bear him an heir. I’m sure that one of these days he’ll heed their advice. He’s getting fed up with me. He flares up at me most of the time no matter what I do.’
She stopped talking because she was out of breath.
Ije said nothing. She did not want to discuss her own problems with Beatrice, so she thought it unfair to encourage her to continue discussing hers.
But Beatrice rattled on, taking no notice of Ije’s silence. She told Ije about the many quarrels she had had with her husband because of her childlessness. She talked about her mother-in-law pouring abuse on her.
In answer to her question Ije told her that she, too, had no child although she had been married for years.
Beatrice was genuinely sorry for Ije in spite of her own misfortune.
‘I don’t know why in this country of ours it is always the women who take all the blame when a couple is childless,’ she said contemptuously. She became silent for a while.
Just then a pregnant woman walked into the waiting- room. Beatrice went over to her and they talked for a few minutes. Then she came back and resumed her seat beside Ije.
‘Did you see that woman I talked to just now?’ Beatrice asked excitedly.
‘The pregnant one?’
‘Yes, that one,’ Beatrice said. ‘She has been married for a good fifteen years without a child. And now God has blessed her for her patience!’
‘She’s lucky,’ Ije rejoined.
‘Very lucky indeed. And her husband is a gentleman. He has doted on her for these fifteen years in spite of pressures from his parents and relations to take a second wife. The woman is from my village. She’s a very good woman.’
‘And God has rewarded her for her virtue,’ Ije thought aloud.
‘Not all virtuous people are lucky,’ Beatrice rejoined. She stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said and wobbled out of the waiting-room.
Ije was again left to her own thoughts. She wondered if her husband would be patient enough to wait for fifteen years for a child from her. Her mind went back to London. She remembered the first day she met her husband, Dozie. It was at a friend’s wedding. The bridegroom was Dozie’s classmate, so he had come to the wedding. She remembered their happy courtship. Dozie was quite different from most of the Nigerian men in London in those days. He was shy, faithful, and kind.
Ije’s room-mate in the hostel had disapproved of Dozie. She had told Ije bluntly that Dozie had nothing to offer her; that Dozie was after her because she was working and could give him financial support. Ije now remembered vividly her roommate’s last words on the issue.
‘You’re behaving like an Englishwoman, Ije,’ she had said. ‘Remember you’re dealing with a Nigerian. In Nigeria, men maintain women and not the other way round. Dozie will not respect you for it.’
But Dozie’s behaviour since they were married had given the lie to her friend’s opinions. Now, after more than five years of being married to him, Ije had nothing to complain about. Their life had been one of give and take; a life full of the joys of sharing. They had learnt to understand each other; to be able to communicate even without speaking. They had grown to be as much as possible one flesh, and whatever social life they had, they had together.
‘If only God would bless us with a child,’ Ije whispered to herself.
At this moment Beatrice returned, interrupting Ije’s train of thought.
‘Well,’ she said, breathing heavily, ‘if Dr Melie fails me I’ll turn to the faith-healers. Didn’t Jesus say prayers can move mountains?’
Ije wanted to correct her. The Bible says faith, not prayers. But she changed her mind. She did not think much of the so-called faith-healers anyway, but she kept her own counsel.
It was now her turn to go in and see the doctor.
‘We’ll meet again,’ she said to Beatrice, and walked into the doctor’s consulting-room.
Dr Melie, a handsome man in his early forties, was busy scribbling on a pad when Ije entered his consulting room. Absentmindedly, he replied to Ije’s greeting and motioned her to a chair opposite him. Ije sat down and waited patiently for him to finish whatever he was writing.
‘Yes, young lady, what is your problem?’ Dr Melie inquired, putting away his scribbling-block. While he waited for an answer to his question he glanced at Ije’s card, taking a mental note of her age, occupation and other such particulars.
Tears welled into Ije’s eyes and she pressed her fingers against them. In spite of her resolution to be stoical about her misfortune, she could not help being wet-eyed whenever she wanted to talk about it.
The tears refused to be kept in and she dabbed her eyes again and again with her handkerchief. Presently she said with tears in her voice:
‘I want a baby, doctor.’
Dr Melie looked at her sympathetically. He saw a well-built woman, dark, with a good crop of jet-black hair which she had combed back and held with a hair-ring. She was slim, and her dark skin was as smooth and as translucent as a new-born baby’s. Dr Melie noticed that she wore no make-up – hers was a natural unadulterated prettiness.
‘How long have you been married, young lady?’ Dr Melie asked.
‘Nearly six years, doctor.’
Dr Melie looked at her card again. ‘You’re only thirty- three, young lady,’ he said, studying her face. ‘There’s still plenty of time for you to have all the babies you want. Now cheer up. You’re not at the end of the road yet.’
‘For a year after I married, doctor, I did not want a baby, but since I decided to start a family I – I – I –’ She stopped speaking because the lump in her throat was choking her.
‘It’s all right, young lady, I understand,’ Dr Melie said kindly. ‘Now tell me, why did you not want to start a family immediately you were married?’
‘My husband had not finished his course at the university. He was having some difficulty paying his fees and could not combine his studies with going to work. I had to keep two jobs in order to help him pay his university fees. That was in London. My jobs were difficult ones. My husband and I therefore decided it would be too much for me to hold down the jobs if I became pregnant. We had to defer starting a family until later.’
‘Were you on the pill then?’
‘No, doctor. I was scared stiff of such things.’
‘Any “accidents”?’ Dr Melie asked.
Ije understood the euphemism which the doctor had used for unplanned pregnancies.
‘There was none, doctor,’ she said.
She remembered now how much she had dreaded any ‘accidents’ during those days in London and how happy she had felt at the end of every month when it was clear to her that she was free. These days it was the other way round. She approached the end of each month with apprehension and became miserable as she watched her dreams dissolve into nothingness as the months came and went.
‘Do you live with your husband now?’ Dr Melie broke into Ije’s thoughts.
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘And you have always lived together?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘What is his job?’
