Chieekwekwe- The story of a goat by Ego Ideba

Chieekwekwe was  my mother's favourite . Castrated on the third month after he was bought, he grew a few inches taller than my  two year old niece Nenye, Nenyenwa for greater measure of pathos: a domestic terror. He grew round everywhere especially at  the hindquarters, competing with the village women  for the best backsides —mold  for exquisite wrapper fit. .He had jet black hair and very blue eyes; first time I saw blue eyes in my village, Umuzu. He also spotted two long proud arrogances , above his eyes on ; veritable instruments  of offense and defense, and a tapering jaw  hair  for a goatee elegance. He also had two sided bursting belly, much like he was pregnant. My mother owned that Chieekwekwe was better than every one of us. This  affirmation drew the battle line between Chiekwekwe and us .

Before Chieekwekwe, there was fourteen year old me and ten year old Buzo. He owned twelve feeding bottles at age, one. This was necessary to ensure  a ceaseless flow of pap ,and to assuage the bitter loss of my mother's breast which the human instrument of wickedness had taken from him. Failure to maintain this status elicited  a fiery bout of  toddler rage that scared the shit out of my wits. Once. we had run out of ogi. Mother had had quickly made some when our supply was filled, and filled all twelve feeding bottles. Buzo was following her around throughout the preparation time putting whatever vestige of patience he had, on severe trial. As soon as the hot gluey fluid touched his tongue, he did the unexpected; the bottle was smashed against a wall spattering pap everywhere. This  ventilation of rage  was not enough as he fell  throwing his feet and arms up and down  in a bid to expire all of his anger. He'd done worse on occasion, hitting his head on the concrete floor . 

Buzo rode my mother's motorcycle at nine , a coming of age practice in Umuzu, my village. He also raised pigeon whom he called to order with skillful use of his catapult.. This disturbed me greatly as i had to address it .

"Buzo, why  are you cruel to these animals. "

"This one loves men too much. She would not stay at a place. " he would say     never taking his eyes off his aim .

How he could tell the females from the  males  in the air was beyond  nwa Umuzu. Buzo, was the neatest of us all . Whenever mother bought things for us, his , would  last longest: appearing new every time he displayed or used it. Buzo also had fine taste buds who exerted their picks from a wide range of foods: for a child. He liked market bought yams especially the ones with green inscriptions on them — inscriptions he owned, were a measure of their sweetness. I shared this attribute with him . Never mind that the home grown varieties  were better scented and so tasted better on the buds of people like my aunts, mother and Ufonwa( my immediate younger brother )—people  cursed with the tart tastebuds of our ancestors. One of such yams was  ji abi , the Chinese yellow yam, a cantankerous creation: never met a food so unfriendly. Most adults in my village ate only this kind of yam, and stored it in their barn all year round. Some deliberately stored and grew everything in next planting season , eating only the leftovers after planting or the  harvest damages , during the harvesting season. Buzo  liked  home grown corns because  they could be harvested before they were due; a choice one only exercised if  he was the farmer. These types were the sweetest  when roasted. The sublime orgasm on the tastebuds, from the popped sweet gluey fluid was a lifetime experience— we( Chieekwekwe inclusive — the idiot had learnt and developed similar taste patterns like us ) all agreed with him on this . Buzo owned  that if corns were allowed to mature or over-mature a little before  harvesting, they  stole  the  above pleasure by eating witchcraft;  even Chieekwekwe  avoided ones tainted with this story : it did not matter that they were hot or cold . 









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