Pain is hell’s fury unleashed. That morning late in November 1943, as in mornings and evenings for about five weeks before, Omo, son of Mr Osana Uwaifo, suffered hell’s fury meted out to him by Japhet, a retired nurse from Owerri. Osana had hired him to take care of Omo’s sore leg, but Japhet had turned those treatment times into periods of agonising pain-letting.

Rested that morning, Omo got up to prepare his breakfast when his estranged mother, Emwinma, walked in. Omo was in tears of joy, glad to see her. In a moment of amnesia, he turned sharply to hug his mother but felt a wrenching pain. “Iyiiiiiiiee,” he screamed and crouched to hold his leg. Emwinma quickly grabbed and straightened him for a hug and said in Ędo, “Ó ni man ovbimwę. Don’t cry anymore, my son.” Omo’s head was well below her shoulders.

Emwinma imagined that Omo had not eaten a good breakfast for some time. So, she went to the kitchen, and Omo’s meal was ready, quicker than he could have ever made it for himself. The first piece of dodo he had in his mouth got there faster than his mother could hear him say thank you. “Ghę gie ęhięn ya han ruęn! Don’t let food get into your windpipe,” she admonished. But excitement dared all boundaries of joy.

Japhet had cleaned Omo’s leg that morning, yet it smelled unpleasantly when Emwinma inspected it. She knew then that the leg was badly infected. That was no problem because she had probably the best-known oral therapy for infections in Ędo land at her fingertips. She asked a neighbour to fetch latex from a tree called ukhu. Soaked in cotton wool, the latex was delivered, and Emwinma set it aside for evening treatment of her son’s leg.

Mr Osana Uwaifo returned a bit early and met his estranged wife. A tepid answer to Emwinma’s greeting, and Osana fired the first shot. “Vbe uado ruu? What are you doing here?” After all, she had left her marital home of her own volition!

Emwinma was not surprised. She said, “Evbi la ukpón nę; óna ighi fo ne ihión. Fatty stain on cloth can’t be sponged out. Ogie imu ohu guóghó ivie. Ma gha kue gha gui, Omo vbe Osayaba róó ne ima nęn. Kings never destroy coral beads in anger; whatever our differences, Omo and Osayaba are our children. Ihóęn node ghe egbe ma ran Omo, ęre ina rhulę do ghe ęre. I heard yesterday that Omo was ill, so I came quickly to see if I could help.”

Osana responded quickly. “Thank you. As you can see, it’s only a sore leg. A retired nurse is taking good care of him. I’m all set to prepare food for the evening. When you have seen enough of your son, goodbye.”

“I’m sorry that Omo can’t move around comfortably to cook for you. That does not show that the retired nurse is doing a good job of treating him. Despite the nurse’s effort, the leg emits a whiff of noxious odour. Can I try for a few days? I have inspected it. I’m sure I know what to do. I want our son to get back to school for the end-of-year examination in one or two weeks.” She added, “You know that, but for our tradition, I would have prepared the evening meal. We are separated. Cooking for you is a taboo. Vbe ne ima na honmwęn owa. The ritual of home sanctification comes before all else. Your extended family forbids you from eating my food without home sanctification.”

Emwinma’s simple words calmed Osana’s anger. He turned to look at her, and as ever, her aura, pleasant and stimulating, suffused him. How radiant she looked, he thought! He said to her, “Because of our boys, only a few days, all right?’

“U ru ęse n’ óyan mwę. Thank you, my lord,” she said and gently genuflected.