Chapter 1: Homecoming

The red dust of Umuode rose behind the bus as it drove off, leaving Chika standing by the narrow road with her suitcase and a backpack full of pamphlets. The harmattan air carried the scent of blooming dry season flowers. Children's laughter floated from somewhere near the stream.

She shaded her eyes, taking in the familiar sight of mud walls, thatched roofs, and mango trees heavy with fruit. It had been ten years since she last walked this road. Lagos had changed her. Her English was crisper, her clothes more fitted, her hair straightened. But the land had not changed. It still breathed with the same quiet rhythm.

A hawk circled overhead, its cry sharp against the afternoon stillness. Chika adjusted the strap of her backpack and wiped sweat from her forehead. The walk to the compound would take twenty minutes. She had forgotten how long the road felt under the sun.

Mama Nkechi, her late mother's cousin, spotted her first.

"Chika! Nwa m, is this you?" she cried, rushing forward, wrapper flapping around her knees. Her headscarf had slipped to one side, revealing streaks of gray in her braids.

Chika dropped her bag and laughed, hugging her tightly. "Aunty Nkechi! You have not aged at all."

"Hmm! Lagos has sweetened your tongue," Mama Nkechi said, eyeing her niece's jeans and canvas shoes. She touched the fabric of Chika's blouse, rubbing it between her fingers. "This one is not from Onitsha Market, ehe? You people spend money on cloth like water."

"It is nothing special, Aunty. I bought it at a small shop."

"Small shop keh, anyways thanks for returning home for the festival" Mama Nkechi added, smiling. "Come, let's go home before the sun swallows you. Your uncle has been waiting since morning. He killed a chicken yesterday when we heard you were coming."

They walked through the dusty lane toward the family compound. Neighbors peeked from doorways, murmuring greetings.

"Welcome, daughter of Ozo Anene."

"Lagos people don come o!"

"Nutritionist! We hear you now heal people with food."

Chika smiled and waved, though the last comment made her uneasy. "I teach people how to eat better, Aunty. Not heal. Nutrition helps prevent sickness."

Mama Nkechi chuckled. "Try explaining that to our people. They believe only Dibia Nwokeocha heals. You remember him?"

At the mention of the name, Chika remembered him. A tall man with a white beard and eyes that seemed to see through you. Even as a child, she had felt both respect and fear for him. In Umuode, the Dibia's word was law.

"I remember," Chika said quietly. "Does he still live near the shrine?"

"Where else would he live? People now come from three villages to see him." Mama Nkechi lowered her voice. "Last month, he told Mama Ebere to stop eating eggs. He said her chi rejected them."

Chika frowned. "Eggs are good protein. If she stopped eating them without replacing the nutrients, her body will suffer."

"I don't think so," Mama Nkechi replied.

When they reached the compound, Pa Okechukwu sat under the old udala tree, fanning himself with a woven raffia fan. His wrapper was tied loosely around his waist, and his chest bore the scars of old tribal marks. A clay pot of palm wine sat beside him.

"Ah, the city girl returns!" he called, his voice deep and warm. "You look strong. So tell me, have you brought those white man's foods you like? Cornflakes and bottled juice?"

Chika laughed and knelt before him in greeting. "Papa, good afternoon. I greet you."

"Stand, stand," he said, waving her up. "You are too big to kneel like that. Sit here."

She sat on the low stool beside him. Mama Nkechi disappeared into the kitchen, muttering about preparing food.

Pa Okechukwu poured a small cup of palm wine and offered it to her. "Drink. Welcome home."

Chika hesitated. "Papa, I don't drink palm wine."

"Eh? You don't drink palm wine?" He looked genuinely shocked. "What do you drink in Lagos? Fanta?"

"Water, sometimes juice."

He shook his head, smiling. "You people have forgotten the ways of the land. Palm wine is not alcohol. It is life. It is from the tree, straight from the heart of the palm. Our fathers drank it every day and lived to see their great-grandchildren."

Chika smiled gently. "I know, Papa. But my body does not handle fermented drinks well. They make me dizzy."

He waved his hand, dismissing her explanation. "That is because you are not used to it. Anyway, suit yourself. But don't come here and tell our people to stop drinking palm wine. You will start a war."

"No, Papa. I came to show our people how our own food can make us strong. You know, ogbono, ukwa, ofe onugbu. All those foods are full of nutrients."

Pa Okechukwu nodded slowly, amused. "Nutrients. Hmm. If you say so. But our fathers lived long eating what the Dibia told them to eat. You people in the city eat strange things and fall sick easily."

Chika chose her words carefully. "Yes, Papa. But times are changing. Even our soil and water are not the same. We must learn how to balance our meals so we don't fall ill."

"Balance." He tasted the word. "The Dibia teaches balance. He tells us which foods to eat during the dry season and which to eat during the rains. He knows when the land is angry and when it is pleased. What more balance do we need?"

"I am not saying his way is wrong, Papa. I am saying we need to add knowledge to tradition. The two can work together."

Her uncle smiled kindly but without conviction. "Talk to the Dibia. If he agrees, the people will listen. If not, you will tire your mouth."

Chika felt a small sting of frustration but hid it. "I will visit him soon. I came to help, not argue."

Pa Okechukwu reached out and patted her shoulder. "You are a good child. Your mother would be proud. But remember, this is not Lagos. Here, we move slowly. We listen to the elders. We respect the spirits. If you rush, you will break things."

"I understand, Papa."

"Good." He leaned back and sipped his wine. "Now tell me, when will you marry? You are not getting younger."

Chika laughed, relieved at the change of topic. "Papa, I am only twenty-eight."

"Twenty-eight! Your mother had three children by that age. What are you waiting for? A man from the moon?"

Before she could respond, Mama Nkechi emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of roasted groundnuts. "Leave the girl alone, Nna anyi. She just arrived and you are already troubling her."

"I am not troubling her. I am asking a simple question."

"Your simple questions drive people away," Mama Nkechi muttered, setting the tray down. She turned to Chika. "Food will be ready soon. Go and bathe. Your room is still the same."

Chika stood, grateful for the escape. "Thank you, Aunty."

She carried her bags to the small room at the back of the compound. The walls were still painted the same faded blue. The bed was narrow, covered with a wrapper that smelled of dried neem leaves. A wooden crucifix hung on the wall beside a framed photo of her mother.

Chika sat on the bed and stared at the photo. Her mother's face was calm, her eyes soft. She had died of complications from high blood pressure five years ago. The doctors said it could have been managed with diet and medication, but by the time she reached the hospital, it was too late.

Chika touched the glass. "I will make sure others don't follow you, Mama. I promise."

She unpacked slowly, laying out her pamphlets on the small table. Each one explained basic nutrition in simple terms. Pictures of local foods. Charts showing portion sizes. Tips for preventing diabetes and hypertension. She had spent months preparing them, designing them to be easy to understand.

But as she looked at them now, in this quiet room, she wondered if they would be enough.

That night, after supper of pounded yam and vegetable soup, she sat on the veranda watching fireflies rise over the banana grove. In the distance, drums beat from the square. Someone was pouring libation. The voice of the town crier echoed faintly, carried on the wind like a prayer:

"Let all gather tomorrow at the village square. Dibia Nwokeocha will speak on the cleansing fast."

Chika listened, her brow tightening. Fasting. She had read enough to know that improper fasting could harm the body, especially for those with underlying conditions. But here, in Umuode, such warnings were easily dismissed as modern fear.

Mama Nkechi came out and sat beside her. "You heard the crier?"

"Yes."

"The Dibia calls for a fast every dry season. He says it cleanses the body and prepares the land for planting. People obey him. Even the Christians."

"How long do they fast?"

"Seven days. No food, only water and bitter herbs."

Chika's hands tightened on her knees. "Seven days? Aunty, that is dangerous. People with certain conditions could collapse."

Mama Nkechi looked at her niece with tired eyes. "No one had collapsed before. And it won't start now."

Chika was silent for a long moment. Then she whispered, more to herself than to her aunt, "I must understand how he teaches them before I speak."

Mama Nkechi stood slowly, her knees cracking. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will not be easy."

She went inside, leaving Chika alone on the veranda.

The night air grew colder. From her room, she heard her aunt humming an old song about homecoming and obedience. Chika watched the stars emerge one by one. An owl hooted from the udala tree. Somewhere in the distance, the Dibia prepared his words for tomorrow.

Chika rose and went back to her room. She lit the kerosene lamp and opened her notebook. On the first page, she wrote in careful letters:

Teach the people of Umuode that food is not only tradition. It is medicine when eaten wisely.

She underlined the last sentence twice. Then she closed the notebook and blew out the lamp.

Outside, the owl hooted again. The drums had stopped. The village slept.

And in her heart, Chika knew the hardest lesson would not be about food. It would be how to speak truth in a place that worshipped old voices.