Colours of our Souls

At morning on Monday, March the 25th, when the sun from the east, beyond Pall Mall, beyond the cityscape of London, rises, and the world is framed by the rays. You, an official of the Royal Commonwealth Society, sit at the reception of its headquarters, waiting in anticipation. Your camera hangs over your neck, your luggage rests by your side, a reminder that today is no ordinary day. A brief reminiscence crosses your mind, pulling you back to the moment when I, a Nigerian entrant, reached out to the RCS board, passionately proposing that my entry may not just be read, but also lived in realism. Thereafter, you were the chosen one for this experience. Invading your thoughts, I walk into the room, our eyes meet. After exchanging pleasantries, we gather our belongings and together walk out the door, ready to embark on this journey.

Beginning our voyage across the Atlantic, the bustling city fades out of view. We traverse the indigo depths, passing the coastlines of Europe and Africa, towards the Gulf of Guinea. Nestled before us is the Niger Delta, home to Ijaw - my very own tribe, my very own pride. You can call us the water-bearers, fed by the river Niger, cradled by the ocean. More often than not are we cast into the shadows, a reality I strongly oppose. Centuries before the colonial era, we settled in as the pioneers of Nigerian culture. With canoes and fishing nets, we set foot in this natural paradise. Out of its belly flows streams of crude oil, out of its ears gas fumes. Our diverse districts are lined across the coastal south, and I have grown penchant to the glow of unpolluted waters, wherein they strive in abundance.

Our destination lies in the eastern Ijaw land in Rivers, where my secluded village lies. On arrival, we are welcomed by the warm greetings of locals, their eyes aglow with radiance. We stroll through the market's wonderful scene. The rich scent of spicy cuisines, herbs and fresh leaves intermingle in the air, alongside native music. Vendors gesture to their stalls, holding out their wares for sample, offering tempting discounts.

As the market gradually fades out of view, the sun-tappled path beckons us to wander the verdant palm trails of the forest; pluck the sun sweet harvest of the earth for a savoury dessert of fruit salad.

Heading back to our residence, we encounter an elderly woman who pleads for our assistance in getting fishes being distributed in the market by fishermen. Upon their return from expeditions, it is customary for the surplus fishes to be shared at the market square to the vulnerable. Squeezing through the rush of hungry villagers, we manage to secure four mist-wreathed ice fishes in a sack bag. When we return, the old lady beams with gratitude, “Imama,” she says, gifting us two of the fishes.

*****

As the sun gives way to the youthful night, sprinkled stars, like orbs of light glow in the heavens whilst the moonlight glistens over the ocean. At the shore, a large crowd encircles an elder seated amidst the flickering shadows cast by the crackling fire. His weathered face bears wisdom of ages past which manifests into words as he opens his mouth to speak, telling a captivating tale. Tales like these are not mere stories, but ties that bind us together, both young and old; tales of the ancestors, struggles and victories, that weave wisdom into juvenile minds, prepping them for the maze of reality. Resilience paints tonight’s story, revealing our evergreen culture and tradition’s triumph over history’s peaks and valleys. Souls unwavering persist, embodying the critical importance of preserving not merely tangible heritage but also the brilliant hues of virtues that paint the canvases of our souls.

The elder offers others the chance to share their own stories. Although I choose to remain an observer, I am moved by the power of their narratives. Even children and youths who are often belittled possess small but significant voices. It comes as no surprise to you, who is ingrained in advocating for youth insights. 

We sing ballads, thereafter, merrily dancing to the beat of drums and flutes as the humid breeze screams in our faces.

Further into the night, the crowd disperses. We stand still at a junction, my perplexed eyes darting around. Upon realising my ignorance in forgetting the route home, I approach a man to ask for directions. Rather than throwing light on our path, he offers for us to spend the night at his house, as our destination is exhaustingly distant. A brief walk leads to the urban region of the village. The grand houses, flashy fence lights, and fab road structure is akin to that of the city. In his home, smiles and laughter fill the air as we join his family in playing Ayo and watching TV.

*****

At sunrise the following day, a palpable sense of excitement permeates the air, infusing every corner of the community with festivity. With blissful hearts, we awaken to the dawn of the Odum festival, a celebration marking the harmonious coexistence between our community and the water spirits that dwell in our midst.

We gather by the shore in our resplendent traditional attire, the air reverberates with jubilant cheers and the rhythmic beat of drums. Festivity dances on the breeze, mingling with the salty tang of the sea. After a series of traditional acts, we are entertained by dance groups, and vibrant masquerades, symbolising the spirits, dancing and twirling with abandon. The alluring scent of Temburu and catfish pepper soup wafts through the air as we feast and dance beneath the canopy of the sky, being reminded once more of the profound connection that binds us to the waters, the wellspring of our collective identity.

My favourite thing not just about this community, but across the vast reaches of Ijaw lands, is our ever-welcoming spirit. In Niger Delta, there is neither northerner nor southerner, there is neither easterner nor westerner, for it is by one name we are nationally called, and we are all connected to each other, in a circle, in a hoop that never ends.

*****

Days later, at the peak of dry season, the sun is hot enough to fry an egg. Sipping chilled tigernut milk, we stroll towards the river where we can swim away the blistering heat of the day. I particularly admire this river, it shimmers even in the absence of natural light, has a wonderful view of the forest lying ahead, and the ducks and eels swim along with you.

Drawing near, our tranquility is shattered by distant clamouring in the native tongue. 

“Not again,” My face droops as I process their words.

"What are they saying?" You ask.

"Something about saving the river."

Along the riverbanks, a protest scene unfolds before us - a huge crowd waving placards, yelling in unison. A protester approaches, informing us of the government's plan to drain the river for a shopping complex. He offers us placards, which we decline. 

"If this continues, soon, all the rivers will drain into extinction." I sigh as we return homewards, “Why must we continue to adapt to unwanted change in this world?"

Stroking soothingly at my shoulder, you ask, "Do you know what writers do when there's a problem?"

"They...write. You're saying I should write to them?"

“'Write if you want to change the world,' Martin Luther said. It’s not my choice to make, though."

How remarkable is it that the fate of this world lies alongside in the pens of writers. Change, however, isn't served on a silver platter, and for a fleeting moment, I am skeptical in this case, that my view may not be substantial enough to convince men in authority. However, inspired by your encouragement, I resolve to write, that my cultural pride shall not meet its fall.

With heart and soul, I write fervently, pouring my essence onto the page. Let these words be a plea, a prayer, that shall bend their will for the better.

*****

On this very day, my heart swells with bliss. Bliss born from the understanding we’ve received, the change we’ve inspired. The river flows freely once more, its ripples carrying the laughter of people, their bodies splashing in revitalized waters, the freedom of aquatic life swarming in the depths. 

As our ride halts at the airport, we bid our farewells. Stepping out of the car, you look back once more saying, “Hey, Deinma. Goodluck in the competition.”

“Thank you.”

The door closes, and I watch as your silhouette retreats into the bustling airport. A profound sense of gratitude washes over me. I will not return immediately to the city. I will remain in my community and relive this all over again.

Niger Delta, home to Ijaw - my very own tribe, my very own pride.