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Séance: “The Tree of Life”

Azure sky romanced sweet soothing Atlantic sea breeze whispering and distilling through
dancing palm and baobab trees. Granma Henrietta relaxed on an antique mahogany stool,
knitting the names of deceased relatives, on a model quilt she was painstakingly crafting.
Intuitively, it pricked her mind that her time clock was ticking, in towing the line with the
ancestors. Not until her extended family had assembled for a communal Awojoh feast that
she plans on hosting. Her quilt is an epitome of ‘Joseph’s coat of many colors.’ She had over
time, carefully observed a viral pattern of disrespect for the elderly. And stunned with
bewilderment she said, “Age is a symbol of respect, braided as African women’s hair,
holding the family tree together.”  

Cautiously, she gently peeled her window curtain, catching a glimpse of movements outside
as people scurry to and fro, in the alluring sunshine. Mentally, she harped on the numerous
sunrise and sunset she had weathered. “Honor like respect is a deep rooted tree that adds
wit to our beloved culture,” she said. Her cottage stood on a precipice, from where one could
catch a panoramic portrait of Freetown, Sierra Leone. Her warm and infectious personality
seduced not only her family but other compatriots.  

She’s the oldest survivor on the paternal side, who did not look her age, just turned four
score, a milestone in the family’s genealogy. About 8.30 am on Saturday, Effuah, her
daughter dropped off Abiola her 6 year-old son at Granny’s house before leaving for a
weekend trip.

“I love to visit Granma’s house,” Abiola said. Excitement sparkled in his glowing eyes as a
flame. Granny makes his favorite cookies: toffees, gingerbread buns, pepper-mints, and
coconut cakes: snacks that most kids love because of the aroma and juicy taste. She was
an expert at telling spellbinding stories to them.

The squeaky hinged front door is flung open for people to walk in unannounced, and allowing
generous fresh air to trickle in. She had no fan or air conditioner unit. The front and back
doors are always left wide open when she’s home. Abiola’s eyes peeled with wide-eyed
probe as he rushed inside the house. Culture and glowing charm danced and breathe in
unison. The antique family portraits animated her parlor, displaying the artistry of the late
photographers Adenuga and Jonathan.   

“Good morning Granma,” he greeted with an embracing hug. “Good morning Abiola. How are
you today?” she said, patting his head. “I’m fine mah,” he replied. Like a weird trance, he
inhaled a pungent familiar smell, firing wrinkles to invade his youthful grace. “Oooh! Again? I
don’t want it,” he said. He’s in trouble. He’s forced to drink this bitter concoction, whenever
he visited her in the morning. At dawn, she ritually gulps down a cupful of Agbo—a bitter
brew of roots and herbs, before breakfast. With the cup in her grip, she religiously sipped the
fuming potent blend that fights malaria, and boosts her health and longevity. She had never
visited a doctor in her lifetime.

“This is for you Abiola. Drink it before it gets cold. Swallow it quickly before I make
breakfast,” she coaxed him. “I don’t like it. It’s nasty and bitter,” he protested. Trusting her
invested love in him, he closed his eyes and nervously swallowed the strong brew. Grim
expression ruined his face as he drank the mixture. “Yeaaah good boy,” she said, monitoring
his emotion with lighted and supportive eyes. Briskly he gave the empty cup to her. She
clapped heartily praising his child-like obedience.

“You’re my obedient boy, she said (patting his head). Now we can eat breakfast and tell
some nice stories.” He needed water to dilute the bitterness that had ruined his taste bud.
Bending under the table, she dipped a cup into a clay country-pot that stored well water. The
refreshing drink would slowly restore his taste bud. Subsequently, Abiola feasted on a bowl
of Quaker Oats and baby bread –sweet bread baked in the shape of a doll, that he washed
down with a cup of sweetened lemon-grass tea, creamed with ‘Cow and Gate’ powdered
milk. He was very hungry. Naturally, he ate ravenously like a starving cub.

Henrietta’s calm, persuasive words had more voltage than 240 watts of electricity, warmly
smoothened with passionate leadership. She’s the rallying factor and spiritual guru the
family cherished. She had arranged other Awojoh feasts like reunions before. Neighbors
wanted her to grease the wheels of time, speeding up more lavish feasts. She’s a brown-
skinned beauty, and endowed with wisdom –“Tree of Life,” who enjoys singing. Her favorite
tune is, “I know ee go well with the righteous….when I reach home.”  Rhythmically, she
employed the ideal moves, coordinated with a matching intonation.

The awesome rendition sent Bandale peeping at his window, admiring her sing. “I love Mama
Henrietta’s sweet and lovely voice,” he said. Her songs touched him so deeply.
“She helps me forget my worries,” his wife added. Granny had earned the accolade singing
“Nightingale,” because of her legacy of soulful tunes and voice. The couple had been
enduring financial hardship, resulting from the gruesome civil war in Sierra Leone that left
them devastated and depressed. The songs did lift up their spirits still plagued with anxiety
and destitution. Family like friends enjoyed her solos too as the “Songbird” wrestled with
humanity’s shortcomings. For her, every challenge had a peaceful salvage that she crafted
into a therapeutic song.

Abiola grabbed his toothbrush and paste. Granma starred at him speaking with bulging,
penetrating eyes. She had never used a toothbrush before. Singing fearlessly, she picked up
her chewing stick, adding charcoal and salt to brush her teeth.
“You are a toothbrush and paste generation,” she said. She had a passion for nature’s
endowment. And she resisted the enticement of processed goods made with chemicals.
She lubricated her skin with animal fat - orie and nut oil; and made her bathing soap –black
soap, from nut oil and herbs. As she smiled, Abiola admired her sparkling white teeth she
took pride preserving. She had a passion for a carefully groomed appearance.

Her favorite color was white. She hand washed her clothes, leaving her hands rough and
hard. Her clothes looked spotless and sparkling clean. She wore no perfume or makeup,
nursing a virtually natural look. And she traced the footsteps of her beloved ancestors. Her
favorite slogan was, “When two elephants fight it’s the tall grass that suffers.”

“With my golden gray hair, I have one foot in the grave. My time ebbs closer to its twilight,”
she said. She was the oldest surviving family member, and her duty involves nursing unity,
peace, love and understanding among them. “We must endeavor to uphold the rich tenets
and beauty of our tradition and culture. The gift of life is neither a paragraph, nor is death a
parenthesis. Our children and grandchildren should know each other, and they cannot date
or marrying each other blindly. It’s a taboo and unhealthy practice,” she stressed. She
spoke with a seductive voice depicting her warm persona, speaking to the family. Unabated,
sobbing tears slowly trickled down her sagging cheeks.
       
In other families, close relatives are still dating and marrying each other like stray chickens.
She wanted to arrest this growing cancer in the bud. She was no demagogue who strived to
coax the family to adopt her ideals. Awojoh ritual is a family reunion that is similar to the
feeding of the five thousand in the Bible, or Thanksgiving celebrated in the US. This gathering
unites the family, socializing and getting to know each other on a more personal and relaxed
atmosphere. The event drew people from other backgrounds. Folks would eat from the same
bowl and at the same place. The event blossomed into a séance with the ancestors.

“Our ancestors form a communion between the celestial and terrestrial domain. It’s
necessary to maintain a healthy marriage between the two worlds,” she said. The feast
required no formal invitation. Heads of families contributed toward funding the event. Large-
scale gourmet of dishes lavished the charity that drew mammoth crowd. She had a fire for
charities and endearing fellowship with people. Granny founded the Daniel’s Band cottage
group, catering for the needs of the poor. As part of its agenda, the group visited charity
homes including the city’s King George’s Home, caring for the homeless and destitute.

She enjoyed organizing rituals for them. Some had no relatives or friends, amid such dire
needs, as society had given up on them. She ensured that tasty home cooked meals were
served. And she distributed toiletries and clothes to the residents. It’s so heart warming and
transforming, igniting blazing smiles on their faces.  But she avoided serving those with
mental problems.

It was pouring when they tied up the benevolent event. The team got dripping wet. Consoling
them she said, “The pouring rain was showers of blessings. In due course we would reap the
reward: though not in monetary terms.” A chartered mini-bus driver who transported them
turned down his balance payment for the trip. He was touched by the compassion and
dedication expressed towards the afflicted. He wanted to be part of this worthy venture. The
group sang choruses heading home.

New Year’s Day ushered the big Awojoh feast. Granny had sent Abiola and Mariatu to
uncles, aunts and cousins reminding them of the upcoming event. Cash contributions flowed
in from families living abroad. A contribution of $300 came from her grandson, Joko. Aunty
Phoebe also received money from her daughter in the US. Granma coordinated the details of
the shopping list that included an assortment of food and drinks. Several experienced cooks
volunteered in preparing various sumptuous meals. Helpers transported the extravagant
provision of drinks, food and livestock including rented chairs.

Neighbors like Mr. Cole peeped outside feasting on the excitement. He said, “Ar get for take
purge for eat lek wolf: before good eat go waste nar me belleh go bos.” He purged himself
with laxative making room for glutinous eating. The tethered livestock - cow, fowls, goat and
sheep were waiting to calm the uneasy salivation of numerous guests. The sonorous booing
of the cow, crowing of the fowl and bleating of the sheep and goat, attracted mammoth
crowd, including strangers who graced the event too.

A vivacious and infectious musical blasted off motivating other people to attend the feast,
now three days away. Cooking took place at the backyard in a makeshift kitchen, suitable
for spherical tripod firestones that could hold gigantic cooking pots. Granny reminded
neighbors to bring containers for take home food service.

The Coles said, “There is no cooking here today, we will kill the food over there to replace
dinner.”      

Before the ceremony, Granny visited the cemetery, inviting her ancestors, requesting their
presence and blessing. Vultures, dogs and cats got wind too. She poured libation in
communing with the dead by spinning lobes of cola nuts. According to the tradition, she
tossed up an equal number of cola nut lobes in the air, landing with an equal number of head
or tail. Men dug two holes at the entrance to the house to hold the blood of the slain cattle.
During the ceremony, blood sprouted into the air, as vultures stood patiently observing, and
loudly rattling on the rooftop.

The smell and sight of blood attracted a drove of vultures, landing with stampede on the
rooftop, interceding in the butchery. So emboldened they descended snatching portions of
meat away. “It’s a good sign to be graced with their presence. Our ancestors are pleased. It
is a bad omen organizing Awojoh and vultures do not show up,” an old woman said. The
birds feasted on the entrails as the legitimate ancestors. “That old vulture resembles late
auntie Katie,” she observed.

Later, they feasted on the food provided for the dead cooked without salt. The meat was
prepped and seasoned. Granny saved cola nuts and a variety of fruits like oranges and
bananas. On the eve, volunteers helped with the initial preparation of the dishes. A bowl of
black-eyed beans was prepped and ready to blend – later fried into akara –a tasty beans
cake. A large pot of beans cooked with palm oil, pepper and onions complimented a favorite
dish –aborbor. A vegetable dish orbiata - cooked with Crain Crain, goes with the foo foo –a
product of cassava, cooked and molded into dough. There was white rice, fish and beef
stew, with a choice of palm oil and groundnut oil stew. At about 5.30 am, helpers made a
trip to the mill to blend a bowl of beans. Women who recently slept with their men could not
handle the mix: fearing the mixture would turn flat as unleavened bread, even without adding
baking soda.

January 1 was a public holiday, the date of the Awojoh. Family, friends from afar, visited the
cemetery early that morning to commune with the dead. It’s a ritual visiting the cemetery at
least once a year, New Year’s or Eastertide. Uncle Bob and his family wore colorful
Ashorbie - African attire on arrival in a chartered poda-poda van, local minibus. Men wore
embroidered lapel shirts, and women wore expensively crafted long flowing dresses. Alhaji
Cole and his family the Muslim wing of the family were dressed in white unblemished, long
flowing robes.

As they came off the latest model Mercedes Benz, they greeted with handshakes and said,
“Salamalaeku, Malaeku Ma Salaam,” to family and the guests. Women wore silk veils and
men wore hats, caftans, long gowns, mukays and slippers. Mr. Cole a Christian tried to
shake Safiatu’s hand. But she bowed respectfully, greeting him from a distance. He was
boiling with emotion as he greeted relatives from abroad. In tears, he said, “If nar so die bin
tan we go gladdie, usai una bin hide, tenk God for Mama Henrietta.” I would be happy if
death reunited us all with our deceased. Where were you all hiding? I thank Mama Henrietta
for organizing this wonderful gathering.”

Spectators flooded the scene, admiring a fusion of costumes with beautiful bright colors.
Granny’s house was stormed by a flood of well-wishers. She sat on a regal armchair
dressed in purple dress with head-tie to match. “Mama Henrietta, I love your beautiful dress.
Where did you buy it?” Salamatu Cole said. “Hahaha…, Oh I got it fifteen years ago. Doris
Davies made it. This is the third time I’m wearing it,” she said. A jubilant atmosphere
beaming with anticipation reflected the spirit of the celebration.

Cooking had progressed and some dishes were already wrapped on the table. The
preparation of other dishes went according to plan. Food for the dead was set on a table in
Granny’s room with a glass of water.

At noon, she said, “My dear ancestors, this modest feast is for you to dine with us, please
bless those who made it possible, and spread your wings of protection and provision over us
all. I’ve attained a milestone as the leader. I’m ready to join my ancestors on the other
shore. May unity and love bind our family, as I approach my time.”

Her mystic rhetoric seemingly transformed her into a trance, depicting reverence and dignity
for the ancestors. Amid the merriment and celebration, Granny had retired to her room.
Guests were at the peak of high-spirited entertainment, and no one had noticed her
absence. The Nyorleh ceremony, charity for the dead was about to begin, as folks took
positions for a ‘Capu Capu’, free for all stampede. But Granny was absent from the
designated site.

Suddenly, like transfiguration, a fleet of vultures descended parading like an angelic train,
rehearsing a solemn, melodious overture that nailed the consternation of those present.
Simultaneously, the chime wall-clock had stopped working. And the family portrait suddenly
fell off the wall and shattered. It was evident something out of the ordinary was brewing. The
thought of Granny’s memorable words began to resonate to family. Everything stopped,
including time. Anxious folks began to ponder on the mysterious events. But no one noticed
she had earlier retired to bed, and quietly taking off her shoes.

Shortly, Henrietta closed her eyes as if she had taken a strong drug and began her sojourn
to the unknown. A sensational flashlight and awe had possessed her. She reaches out to
greet the ancestors with a smile, beaming with excitement. There’s no night or day, once
she landed at the realm beyond: where life is organized with precision. She had anticipated
this moment. Its advent flashed a dream she could neither comprehend nor apprehend.

Reclining on her bed, her brittle spirit seemed divorced from its entrapped body. Granny had
taken a mystic form, overshadowing folks’ comprehension. People were thrown into disarray,
stalling the feasting and socializing. It was getting dark and time for the guests to leave.
Emotionally charged women would invade her room, finding a transformed soul smiling on
her bed. They peered, shook her with frenzy jaw-breaking screams. But she was as cold as
she was unresponsive. She could hear and empathize with them. But a mysterious mighty
river had separated them. Finally, she had peacefully joined her loving ancestors, deserting
this enduring Awojoh fusion and shocking confusion.

Roland Bankole Marke © 2010

Roland Bankole Marke is a Sierra Leonean, and the author of Teardrops Keep
Falling, Silver Rain and Blizzard and Harvest of Hate: Stories and Essays. He’s widely
published in various journals and magazines around the world: including world press,
Guardian Weekly, Journal of African Literature and Pambazuka. His work is also
featured in various anthologies of short stories and poetry. His website is www.
rolandmarke.com