“Have you written to your dad yet?” asked Nene1 one afternoon as she sat with Nnaemeka in her
room at 16 Kasanga Street, Lagos.

“No. I’ve been thinking about it. I think it’s better to tell him when I get home on leave!”

“But why? Your leave is such
a long way off yet—six whole weeks. He should be let into our
happiness now.”

Nnaemeka was silent for a while, and then began very slowly as if he groped for his words: “I
wish I were sure it would be happiness to him.”

“Of course it must,” replied Nene, a little surprised. “Why shouldn’t it?”

“You have lived in Lagos all your life, and you know very little about people in remote parts of
the country.”

“That’s what you always say. But I don’t believe anybody will be so unlike other people that
they will be unhappy when their sons are engaged to marry.”

“Yes. They are most unhappy if the engagement is not arranged by them. In our case it’s
worse—you are not even an Ibo.”

This was said so seriously and so bluntly that Nene could not find speech immediately. In the
cosmopolitan atmosphere of the city it had always seemed to her something of a joke that a
person’s tribe could determine whom he married.

At last she said, “You don’t really mean that he will object to your marrying me simply on that
account? I had always thought you Ibos were kindly disposed to other people.”

“So we are. But when it comes to marriage, well, it’s not quite so simple. And this,” he added,
“is not peculiar to the Ibos. If your father were alive and lived in the heart of Ibibio-land he
would be exactly like my father.”

“I don’t know. But anyway, as your father is so fond of you, I’m sure he will forgive you soon
enough. Come on then, be a good boy and send him a nice lovely letter . . .”

“It would not be wise to break the news to him by writing. A letter will bring it upon him with a
shock. I’m quite sure about that.”

“All right, honey, suit yourself. You know your father.”

As Nnaemeka walked home that evening he turned over in his mind different ways of
overcoming his father’s opposition, especially now that he had gone and found a girl for him. He
had thought of showing his letter to Nene but decided on second thoughts not to, at least for the
moment. He read it again when he got home and couldn’t help smiling to himself. He
remembered Ugoye quite well, an Amazon of a girl who used to beat up all the boys, himself
included, on the way to the stream, a complete dunce at school.

I have found a girl who will suit you admirably—Ugoye Nweke, the eldest daughter of our
neighbor, Jacob Nweke. She has a proper Christian upbringing. When she stopped schooling
some years ago her father (a man of sound judgment) sent her to live in the house of a pastor
where she has received all the training a wife could need. Her Sunday school teacher has told
me that she reads her Bible very fluently. I hope we shall begin negotiations when you come
home in December.

On the second evening of his return from Lagos, Nnaemeka sat with his father under a cassia
tree. This was the old man’s retreat where he went to read his Bible when the parching December
sun had set and a fresh, reviving wind blew on the leaves.

“Father,” began Nnaemeka suddenly, “I have come to ask for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness? For what, my son?” he asked in amazement.

“It’s about this marriage question.”

“Which marriage question?”

“I can’t—we must—I mean it is impossible for me to marry Nweke’s daughter.”

“Impossible? Why?” asked his father.

“I don’t love her.”

“Nobody said you did. Why should you?” he asked.

“Marriage today is different . . .”

“Look here, my son,” interrupted his father, “nothing is different. What one looks for in a wife
are a good character and a Christian background.”

Nnaemeka saw there was no hope along the present line of argument.

“Moreover,” he said, “I am engaged to marry another girl who has all of Ugoye’s good qualities,
and who . . .”

His father did not believe his ears. “What did you say?” he asked slowly and disconcertingly.

“She is a good Christian,” his son went on, “and a teacher in a girls’ school in Lagos.”

“Teacher, did you say? If you consider that a qualification for a good wife I should like to point
out to you, Emeka, that no Christian woman should teach. St. Paul in his letter to the Corinthians
says that women should keep silence.” He rose slowly from his seat and paced forward and
backward. This was his pet subject, and he condemned vehemently those church leaders who
encouraged women to teach in their schools. After he had spent his emotion on a long homily he
at last came back to his son’s engagement, in a seemingly milder tone.

“Whose daughter is she, anyway?”

“She is Nene Atang.”

“What!” All the mildness was gone again. “Did you say Neneataga, what does that mean?”

“Nene Atang from Calabar. She is the only girl I can marry.” This was a very rash reply and
Nnaemeka expected the storm to burst. But it did not. His father merely walked away into his
room. This was most unexpected and perplexed Nnaemeka. His father’s silence was infinitely
more menacing than a flood of threatening speech. That night the old man did not eat.
When he sent for Nnaemeka a day later he applied all possible ways of dissuasion. But the young
man’s heart was hardened, and his father eventually gave him up as lost.

“I owe it to you, my son, as a duty to show you what is right and what is wrong. Whoever put
this idea into your head might as well have cut your throat. It is Satan’s work.” He waved his son
away.

“You will change your mind, Father, when you know Nene.”

“I shall never see her,” was the reply. From that night the father scarcely spoke to his son. He did
not, however, cease hoping that he would realize how serious was the danger he was heading for.
Day and night he put him in his prayers.

Nnaemeka, for his own part, was very deeply affected by his father’s grief. But he kept hoping
that it would pass away. If it had occurred to him that never in the history of his people had a
man married a woman who spoke a different tongue, he might have been less optimistic. “It has
never been heard,” was the verdict of an old man speaking a few weeks later. In that short
sentence he spoke for all of his people. This man had come with others to commiserate with
Okeke when news went round about his son’s behavior. By that time the son had gone back to
Lagos.

“It has never been heard,” said the old man again with a sad shake of his head.

“What did Our Lord say?” asked another gentleman. “Sons shall rise against their Fathers; it is
there in the Holy Book.”

“It is the beginning of the end,” said another.

The discussion thus tending to become theological, Madubogwu, a highly practical man, brought
it down once more to the ordinary level.

“Have you thought of consulting a native doctor about your son?” he asked Nnaemeka’s father.

“He isn’t sick,” was the reply.

“What is he then? The boy’s mind is diseased and only a good herbalist can bring him back to
his right senses. The medicine he requires is Amalile, the same that women apply with success to
recapture their husbands’ straying affection.”

“Madubogwu is right,” said another gentleman. “This thing calls for medicine.”

“I shall not call in a native doctor.” Nnaemeka’s father was known to be obstinately ahead of his
more superstitious neighbors in these matters. “I will not be another Mrs. Ochuba. If my son
wants to kill himself let him do it with his own hands. It is not for me to help him.”

“But it was her fault,” said Madubogwu. “She ought to have gone to an honest herbalist. She was
a clever woman, nevertheless.”

“She was a wicked murderess,” said Jonathan, who rarely argued with his neighbors because, he
often said, they were incapable of reasoning. “The medicine was prepared for her husband, it was
his name they called in its preparation, and I am sure it would have been perfectly beneficial to
him. It was wicked to put it into the herbalist’s food, and say you were only trying it out.”

Six months later, Nnaemeka was showing his young wife a short letter from his father:
It amazes me that you could be so unfeeling as to send me your wedding picture. I would have
sent it back. But on further thought I decided just to cut off your wife and send it back to you
because I have nothing to do with her. How I wish that I had nothing to do with you either.

When Nene read through this letter and looked at the mutilated picture her eyes filled with tears,
and she began to sob.

“Don’t cry, my darling,” said her husband. “He is essentially good-natured and will one day look
more kindly on our marriage.”

But years passed and that one day did not come.

For eight years, Okeke would have nothing to do with his son, Nnaemeka. Only three times
(when Nnaemeka asked to come home and spend his leave) did he write to him.
“I can’t have you in my house,” he replied on one occasion. “It can be of no interest to me where
or how you spend your leave—or your life, for that matter.”

The prejudice against Nnaemeka’s marriage was not confined to his little village. In Lagos,
especially among his people who worked there, it showed itself in a different way. Their women,
when they met at their village meeting, were not hostile to Nene. Rather, they paid her such
excessive deference as to make her feel she was not one of them. But as time went on, Nene
gradually broke through some of this prejudice and even began to make friends among them.
Slowly and grudgingly they began to admit that she kept her home much better than most of
them.

The story eventually got to the little village in the heart of the Ibo country that Nnaemeka and his
young wife were a most happy couple. But his father was one of the few people in the village
who knew nothing about this. He always displayed so much temper whenever his son’s name
was mentioned that everyone avoided it in his presence. By a tremendous effort of will he had
succeeded in pushing his son to the back of his mind. The strain had nearly killed him but he had
persevered, and won.

Then one day he received a letter from Nene, and in spite of himself he began to glance through
it perfunctorily until all of a sudden the expression on his face changed and he began to read
more carefully.

. . . Our two sons, from the day they learnt that they have a grandfather, have insisted on being
taken to him. I find it impossible to tell them that you will not see them. I implore you to allow
Nnaemeka to bring them home for a short time during his leave next month. I shall remain here
in Lagos . . .

The old man at once felt the resolution he had built up over so many years falling in. He was
telling himself that he must not give in. He tried to steel his heart against all emotional appeals. It
was a reenactment of that other struggle. He leaned against a window and looked out. The sky
was overcast with heavy black clouds and a high wind began to blow, filling the air with dust
and dry leaves. It was one of those rare occasions when even Nature takes a hand in a human
fight. Very soon it began to rain, the first rain in the year. It came down in large sharp drops and
was accompanied by the lightning and thunder which mark a change of season. Okeke was trying
hard not to think of his two grandsons. But he knew he was now fighting a losing battle. He tried
to hum a favorite hymn but the pattering of large raindrops on the roof broke up the tune. His
mind immediately returned to the children. How could he shut his door against them? By a
curious mental process he imagined them standing, sad and forsaken, under the harsh angry
weather—shut out from his house.

That night he hardly slept, from remorse—and a vague fear that he might die without making it
up to them