(By Immanuel James Ibe-Anyanwu) I arrived Umueze Umuhu
30th December, 2018, after a three-day stay at a hotel in Owerri. Off
Aba-Owerri highway lies Umueze, home of my ancestors, 15 minutes to the Imo
airport sited in Ngor-Okpala, our local council area. The road is untarred, the
colour of a rising sun, parting rich vegetations left to thrive around rural
homesteads. There is notable treenocide from housing developments, but much of the greenery is intact. I
love trees, love watching the harmattan push their branches to a side like
women’s hair.
Our earth is flat,
literally. No gullies, no flooding. No drainage, yet rainwater knows its way to
the farm. The road runs a long stretch before bending, so that, standing at
your entrance, you can see a kinsman several meters away; you can call his
name, raising your hand in greeting. Our road reflects a sense of ancestral
geometry, a sense of kinship.
Because my arrival is
being expected, a hot oha soup is asked to wait for me at the table. My stepmother. Oha,
your leaves are green and true, I think to myself, eating without any waste of
time. Dry fish, the one they call nwa-urubiri, with its colleagues is lounging in the soup. The fufu is pure
white, pampered into a round edibility. I am officially welcome to the place I
grew up, reminded of Grandmother’s culinary offerings.
