URHOBO ROOTS AND THE GOD'S FABRIC © 2011


All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.

(urhoborootsandthegodsfabric@gmail.com)

This book is dedicated to the Most High, Jesus Christ.

Urhobo roots and the gods' fabric is the account of the recall of the origin and ancestry of the Urhobo people of Nigeria, by the heroine, D'atta, and her father, the chief priest of the deity Ay-ya-ra, Obalqa.

Covering more than 4,000 years, from Babel in Ancient Iraq, through Egypt and Nubia (Sudan), the migrations of the Urhobo ethnic group are revealed. Also, their arrival in the area called Nigeria (today) with their relatives - other Nigerian ethnic groups - about 1,736 years ago is revealed.
Note: The letter 'q' as used in names in this book can be interchanged with the letter 'k'. The essence is phonological.

The alphabets 'oo' can also stand for 'u' in proper nouns.

CHAPTER ONE

Urhobo did not begin in Nigeria, or today. His origin went beyond Sudan and Egypt and reached ancient Iraq which Urhobo called "Eshe-ena" meaning, "The land of altars", but which other tongues called "Shinar" or "Sumer". Amongst this erstwhile Isi-oboh (Urhobo) head people of the Niger-Delta region of Nigeria, who were sometimes called So-oboh and Assa-bah, respectively, by Alqai-neh (also called Alqa or Aka, for short, or Bini), and other tongues, but who are Ru-obo, Uru-obo (or Urhobo). There is a saying that when the gods choose to depart they first tear off their covering garments.

D'atta pondered over this saying as she lay bound, hands and feet, on the floor of Ay-ya-ra, her communal god's shrine, deep in the forest of Ammoo, awaiting to be slaughtered.

She was fourteen years old and the only child of Obalqa the ageing chief priest of the land’s main ancestral deity, Ay-ya-ra. Her present predicament was the consequence of her newly risen profile; a new profile that was the consequence of her intimacy with her father.

Why, D'atta wondered, did the gods trouble the sight of their ministers so, by being careless with their cover clothes? Why did the gods measure their thighs with mere men and women? What did the challenge profit them - the letting loose or lifting up of their loin wrapper before men?

Was this not what led to the tragedy of the first greatest Black Urhobo priest? The youngest-ever ookoo, or elderly overlord, the extremely brilliant Enki-ro (Enki or Eki, for short, whom Oyi-oboh/Oyibo (which means, "The ones on the other cool side or yonder" ) called Nimrod, and Nero or Neero, variously); who at the age of sixteen had begun to stagger the then world? Had that Yensi (Horse) and Horkso or Horus-o (Hawk or Falcon), chief priest-king, not caught a magnificent view and revelation of the great secret - the secret of the ages- packaged in the beneath-the-loins region of the gods, which he and his lieutenant-priests had viewed from the lofty roof-top of his great temple? Had the sight and revelation not been both wonderful and baffling? And, the outcome: had the gods not got flustered and envious, and struck mercilessly the elated Enki and his fellow priests, leaving them dumb-founded, especially Enki most broken? Moreover, was this not how Urhobo blossoming global dynasty had first been lost?

D'atta's eyes roamed over the god; Ay-ya-ra's long cowry-stringed marined hand that hung from its shoulder and neck region above and reached nearly to the earthen floor. The lone arm actually leaned and rested on the left side of the god's body. The body comprised of a wooden trunk - the straight limb of a tree whose bark was peeled - stuck firmly on the ground. On the top of the trunk sat a half-size cocodiya, or coconut shell. The coconut disk, which represented the sun god's head, held the god's palm wine offering. From the neck of the god, a long, white baddere, or flag fell, reaching down to just a few inches short of the last rungs of the hand's cowries.

Nearby, behind D'atta, stood the other god, Cizzar: one-legged and one armed, whom Oyibo called Zeus, and whom the natives called Azizza; clothed in a red, sleeve-less gown that fell to its knees. Cizzar was a later deity.

D'atta had sat here innumerable number of times in the past, under her father's feet, as an eager disciple. She had learnt the sacred, hardcore ropes of primordial priesthood. She had learnt the ways of the gods and the ancient priests, and the ways of her people: how they all were in the beginning and how they were now. Moreover, she had completed her induction.

Now, the situation was reversed. Now, she would be offered to the gods as a sacrifice.

It was unbelievable, D'atta reasoned. It all looked so unreal; so much like a dream. Although she knew that the sun god, Ay-ya-ra's (also called, Ay, Hor-re(-ay), Re, Ra, and Horus-o-lob-ra) long fingers reached everywhere in the earth and beyond, yet it should not be possible for it or its allies to burn her. She knew, for, apart from being an insider, she was not defiled or guilty, and the gods worked by principles; that once established, divine principles were hard or impossible to break. Hence, she wondered at her present predicament. She shook her head as if to clear it of a bad dream.

D'atta was fourteen years old and the only child of her father, Obalqa, the chief priest of the deity, Ay-ya-ra, the land's main ancestral deity. Her present predicament was because of her newly risen profile; a new profile that was consequence of her closeness to the chief priest.

It was two Urhobo weeks ago - the Urhobo week that consisted of four days; namely, ehdeh-Ehwor, ehdeh-Iri-ewoh, ehdeh-Horeh or Hor-re, and ehdeh-Aybee, so called since pre-Global Flood times - that she had been raised high by the clan, when she had won it the prize. (The Urhobo days' names represented the four activities - "Ehwor", "Iri-ewoh", "Hor-re", and "Aybee" - of the gods; adopted as names of the days of the week. Ehwor was the day of ritual communion; a day of worship, of offering sacrifices; Iri-ewoh (or Irewoh or Omam-ehdeh) was the day of work of the gods; Ho-reh, the day of making merriment, of making festivities of the god Hor-re (who is the god of festivities); and Ay-bee, the day of preparation of the gods Ay. ("Bee" or "Bi" meant movement. Ay's other aspect was Suo or Ay-gbesoo (Egbesu), the aspect of discipline or rule.) Ay was the god of the sky, and by nature of clouds, Ay-bee represented movement or migrations. Ehdeh, the prefix, was Urhobo word for Day.)

Just two Urhobo weeks ago, her star had shone bright and high....
D'atta's story and fame had spread like a wild fire through the length and breadth of Urhobo land; from Orogun to Isi-kolo, from Agba-ra-am-re to Oqere, Warri; and beyond. It was the clan's Ay-ya-ra Jubilee festival. Ay-ya-ra (whose history was lost to most members of Urhobo and their relatives) was the sun god, the group and clan's most foremost deity and ancestral god. The challenges that she won was the traditional story-telling genre. The story-telling contest was part of the activities that rounded off the once-in-fifty years (by the pre-Global and post-Global Flood eras Urhobo calendar) special festival of Ay that celebrated the protection, provision and preservation of the land. In former times (in their far-away, ancestral lands), its celebration was done by the order of eleven fingers of Hor-re or oovoh. The sun: every eleven years, multiplied by the number eleven. However, that was until they left Ono-oba (or Oro-oba, which is Noba (called Nubia by Oyi-oboh), for short, which meant, "The peak that is of gold" or "Viewing a splendid peak". This was its thirty-fourth memorial since that partial uprooting from Ono-oba of the Nile valley region, and its sixteenth since leaving Oton r'Alqai-neh (or Alqa), which is Benin of the present day Niger-Delta region of Nigeria.

The festival was remarkable, for nowadays, several adults witnessed it once in their lifetime and fewer still, twice; while an extremely rare few witnessed it three times. Such rare persons were in the recent past sometimes suspected to have hung life-extension medicine gourds on the eaves of their inner rooms.

The challenge was who could tell an unending story and still be able to finish it.

The prize for the teller of such a story was a fat, live bull.

Therefore, it was no mean contest, as twenty-three contestants emerged - each contestant representing a community in the clan - wizened, gray-bearded and gray-haired men mostly; each one of them with the singular aim of leading home the highly coveted, fat prize-bull. D'atta had been the only female.

D'atta had been the first-ever, youngest participant to have contested, and won, the prize in the history of the contest, in a duel that was traditionally reserved for elders, especially, the seasoned raconteurs.

Regarding the particular genre of the competition, the elderly participants - crafty in the art - had winked their eyes slyly, nodding their silvery heads slowly, and smiled knowingly. There were good stories. They knew. There were great stories. They knew. They were prepared to deliver. However, there was no such thing as an unending story. Not to mention ending it. It was impossible. No man or woman alive could tell such a tale. Only the gods could do such things. Thus, they were convinced that one of them would win the prize through the rendition of a great story - an interesting story - that ended beautifully. This sort of story would be adjudged the best, and not necessarily an impossible, unending tale.

Men my Uhrobo Cousins are sweet, from banga soup to okodo(Niger sweet joor)

Hmmmmm

This book really brings back memories of life in the village... It is very surprising that most Urhobos do not seem to care about their origin. Every writer's roots are very important in understanding his or her work. Scionofurhobo, you have made us proud. The Urhobos share similar linguistic and cultural features with the people of Edo hence they are regarded as being part of the Pan-Edo or Edoid group.

The prize-bull had been tethered to an uloko (iroko), (chlorophora) tree at the village market square which was the playground venue for the event. It slowly chewed on grass.

The judges - grandees - committed to carrying out a credible and impartial assignment, and headed by a chairperson - the chief judge - had taken their seats that late, cool afternoon.

The crowd of spectators had taken various advantageous listening positions, eagerly awaiting the nourishment of their souls by sizzling tales dished out by folklorist-wizards.

One thing, though, had bothered not a few members of the audience. They had wondered: Was there such a thing as an unending story? They doubted it. Yet, they were curious to find out. One bond, however, held every member of the audience: to see and hear such a tale; how its winner will emerge; and if no winner emerged, how the judges were going to maneuver the robust prize-bull, which some cynics suspected would end up in their cooking pot or pots.

Altogether, the cynics and all other spectators were united in one purpose: to monitor the contest and see its outcome, They desired that a credible winner emerged, that the contest be credible, and, that the fate of the robust, oily bull be believable and acceptable to all. They were resolute that should anything untoward, along the line, truncate their simple, humble expectations, they would lay down their lives for the true winner and for the life (and not just a slice) of the beast. For that was how much they all were concerned about the contest and its prize.

Therefore, with everything combined, one could actually cut with a knife the thick tension that cloaked the filled-to-capacity venue of the event that evening. In addition, anyone who had watched closely enough that evening would have seen some men's ears twirl and twitch on their accord as their owners strained to catch every word issued by the story performers and the judges. Some persons actually swore that on that day, they saw with their ko-oro ko-oro, or clear eyes, grey hairs on the narrators' heads rustle and crack, as if unseen hands twanged them, as the narrators strenuously dug into their brains and dished scintillating stories.

Seventy-seven-year old Agbonfeiroh told the first story. Every hair on Agbonfeiroh's head, as well as his long, tapering beards, was eagle-white. His eyes, which gazed into the far distance, as he narrated his story, were beady and rheumy. With a deep clear voice that carried, but quavered slightly, he had begun his performance by first raising a song, to which the audience had immediately responded.

Agbonfeiroh: Dada-moo, we shall wrestle today!

Audience: What a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: Dada-moo-o, we shall wrestle today!

Audience: What a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: Whomsoever I lay my hands on --

Audience: What a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: I will eat him like starch!

Audience: What a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: Whomsoever i lay my hands on --

Audience: What a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: I shall eat her like yam!

Audience: Oh, what a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: Now, I come --

Audience: Oh, what a sight!

Agbonfeiroh: I am laying my hands on someone, now ...

Agbonfeiroh had then launched into his narrative.

‘Once upon a time, there lived a king by the name of Ogie. He had only one child, a daughter, whose name was Attibollokor. She was a very beautiful damsel. The time then came for the king to give out Attibollokor in marriage. The king needed a man who, above all else, had great wisdom, to marry his daughter, especially since such a son-in-law would eventually become the king and ruler of the land after him. Therefore, the king placed an advertisement for a prospective, single suitor, who had the qualities of strength and wisdom, to marry his daughter.

The response to the king’s advertisement, however, was overwhelming. Every eligible male in the land rushed forward with his application requesting to be the husband of the king’s daughter. Even some married men found cause to divorce their wives in order to be eligible to apply to marry the king’s daughter. Indeed, the rate of divorce in the land soared fearfully in a matter of a few days in response to the king’s advertisement, as men used the slightest opportunity and sought for the slightest offense or excuse to send their wives packing home. If, for instance, the woman did not add enough salt to the soup she cooked, her husband sent her packing home. If she did not pat the man’s upper shoulder and back like a lord while he sat to eat his dinner, away she went. If she did not wipe the little baby’s excreta from the sitting room floor quickly enough, away she went. Or, if she as much as nudged his leg with her foot while they lay together in bed, she was sent packing to her parents’ home. Fortunately, however, marital crisis in the land did not last for too long, as the male suitors were quickly short-listed by the king.

After intensive screening, only two males finally made the list: Uzoh, otherwise known as Antelope, and Ogbein, who is also known as Tortoise. Both men were young and strong and filled with knowledge and wisdom. However, of the two, only one could emerge as the husband of the king’s daughter. The problem that the king faced was which one of the two should marry his daughter. Ogie, the king, was in a tight spot as to which one of the two suitors to choose. Therefore, he consulted his wise men.

The wise men critically considered the situation. They suggested that the two last men standing should do a test. The test would be a race that they must run wherein the emerging winner should complete the race, which would begin from one end of village and end at the other end. The winner must be one who first finished the race.

When the whistle to start the race went, Antelope took off in a flash, galloping like the wind, leaving the rather slow and sluggish tortoise behind.

Before the race had started, however, Tortoise had first surveyed the route that they would take. Halfway on the route, he had found a mango tree that was laden with many attractive ripe fruits. Tortoise knew that Antelope had a fondness for mango fruits, so he climbed the tree and rubbed a sleeping medicine on the fruits. Tortoise understood the nature of beings, that what they loved too much could also be their weakness and their undoing.

Meanwhile, as the sluggish-running Tortoise continued with his slow few steps. Antelope had already reached the middle of the course, and looking up, beheld the mango tree and its inviting, mouth-watering, ripe fruits. The fruits were tempting indeed and Antelope paused in his tracks to regard them. Now, it was a sunny afternoon. The weather was hot, and Antelope’s throat was dry. The fruits were inviting. He could quench his thirst with one of the mangoes. He looked behind him to gauge the distance between Tortoise and himself; Tortoise was nowhere in sight. He could afford to spare a minute to pluck and eat one of the juicy mangoes, he reasoned, and continue to win the race. It would be foolish of him to miss this opportunity of a free, quick meal, he thought. Therefore, Antelope stopped by the mango tree and looking near him, he reached up and climbed the tree. He plucked two fruits, which he put in his pockets, which he intended to eat when he had completed the race. Then, he plucked another one, which he quickly ate. He did not even bother to wash the fruit first, before eating it. Immediately Antelope finished eating the sweet-tasting mango, he began to feel drowsy. Within a few moments, his legs buckled under him and he fell down. Soon, he was fast asleep at the base of the tree.

Antelope was in a slumber and snoring very loudly by the time Tortoise got to the mango tree. Tortoise overtook him quietly.

It was the roaring cheer of the spectators some time later that roused Antelope from sleep. By then Tortoise had neared the finishing line of the race. Before Antelope could even manage to stand up on his wobbling legs, Tortoise had breasted the finishing tape and won the race.
The jubilating crowd carried Tortoise shoulder-high.

Members of the press had asked Tortoise, ‘Sir, how did you, a slow runner, beat Antelope who is a fast runner?’
‘No comments, please,’ Tortoise replied, ‘Isn’t your question rather absurd, gentlemen? Can’t you see of the two of us who the faster runner is?’

‘But what is your secret?’ they urged.

Tortoise gave in. ‘Well … alright. Firstly, slow and steady wins the race. Secondly, people, the fact that a man is short does not mean that his scrotum rubs the floor when he walks. That will be all. Thank you!’

Tortoise had received his prize, his wife, Princess Attibollokor.’

As interesting as Agbonfeiroh’s tale was, it had ended. So did all the other stories. Every story, inevitably, ends, it seems.

CHAPTER TWO

D’atta’s turn came last. She cast a slow, sweeping gaze at her audience, slightly cleared her voice, and with what seemed like a trace of smile playing on her lips, commenced with a song. Sometimes, this song was done as a prelude to folklore and it involved audience participation.

D’atta: Who has been
to the land of the spirits,
the land of the immortals?

Audience: The folklorist!

D’tta: I say, who will tell of things…
things no mortal’s eye sees?

Audience: The folklorist!

D’atta: Who will serve
tonight's wine:
deep that must steal,
steal every sleep?

Audience: The folklorist!

D’atta: Who will take your hand,
make you soar;
guide you through
dizzying heights?

Audience: The folklorist!

D’atta: So, brace yourself:
take my hand, and my word,
I will not lie; I am sure.
People, who am I?

Audience: The folklorist!

The audience was excited. Now, they were expecting the last, hopefully, good story. It was evening already. The sun had gone down. Every spectator present knew D’atta, like her elders and betters before her, would not be able to tell an unending story. How could she, a baby that was born only yesterday? Now, they felt pity for the prize-bull because, now, nobody will win it despite great efforts put in. Some of them began to wish that the judges would lower the standard and simply ward the winning prize to the sliest, terminable story. Nobody really reckoned that the young D’atta had fully set out to win the prize, and to make her father, community, and her clan proud.

Therefore, D’atta went on confidently.

‘Ita-iye!’ She shouted.

‘Iyi-Ay!’ the audience responded.

D’atta began: ‘A long time ago, before this earth had cracked in several places like an over-fired clay pot, Mama-Earth’s throat had been parched with thirst. Ay-noo, the sky, had not released rainwater because there were not yet enough persons on earth to use it for farming. However, Mama-Earth, with her throat so parched, could not wait any much longer for men to populate the earth that Ay-noo was waiting for. Her thirst was severe.

As it were, she had a tank of a stomach that could take endless volumes of water. Mama-Earth, thus, took a drinking position at Ookoo-ani land, and opened her mouth at Hoomoo-ajah from where she had an uninterrupted fill that began to drain the Atlant-Isi Ocean, through Ubini or Bini River, through Hoo-ri-ye, Uru-Appelleh or Sapele River, through Hoo-ri-ye Avra-alqa or Abraka River…’ D’atta paused and threw a question to the audience: ‘My people, how many days would it take Mama-Earth to empty the Ocean, rivers and streams? What do you think?’

‘A year!’ someone shouted from the audience.

‘A month’ another person shouted.

‘One week!’ another person called out.

‘One day!’ yet, another person shouted.

‘We shall see, then,’ D’atta replied. She then continued, ‘Mama-Earth took her first sip and the cool water went down her parched throat like this, “glug!”. Ah! It felt so good. So, Mama-Earth kept on drinking: Glug! Glug! Glug! …’ Then, for the next nearly over an hour the only word that D’atta kept saying was “glug!”

Nobody seemed to have caught on for a while until one of the discerning judges turned to ask D’atta, ‘my dear girl, how much has she – I mean, the Earth woman --- drunk now?’

‘Oh! Sir, can you not see her enormous task? Well, she is just at the tip of Ethiope.’ D’atta replied. She then added, ‘if one should make a conservative estimate, sir, it should take her three or more days to move on to the water-body of Sapele.’

‘Well, glug! Mama-Earth drank. Glug! Glug! Glug!...’ D’atta began again, as if she owned all the time in the world.

Soon, the audience, lulled by the monotonous rhythm and sound of ‘glug’, began to drift off to sleep. A few of the judges, however, struggled not to fall asleep. After a while, as D’atta’s narration ran, it dawned on the chief judge, who as a dutiful umpire, must never fall asleep on duty, that D’atta was rendering more than a child’s tale. It dawned on him and the other alert judges that D’atta was rendering a story whose actual end, potentially, would never come. They realized that the girl was not a pretender to the crown, but a champion of the tough tale’s race. With this discernment, the chief judge sought his colleague’s opinions.

After conferring amongst themselves, the judges took a decision: D’atta had won the contest.

The chief judge was also the ottota, spokesperson, for the judges. He stood up and cleared his throat. Then, he spoke: ‘Urhobo, wad-do-o! Isi, wad-doh!’

His greeting woke everybody up. ‘Ay!’ the audience responded each time he said, ‘wad-doh’!

‘I salute all of you! the judge proceeded. ‘My people, a mouth-shutting- sorry – a mouth-opening thing has happened today! A child – a girl for that matter – of no more than fourteen years of age has accomplished a task that we thought would be difficult for even the elderly, seasoned storytellers to achieve. What the elders could not do, a child has accomplished. This is a rare feat. Now, in addition to the theme of the universal indispensability of water, and other devices she employed, inclusive of the classical style of rendition, her story has the potential of being interminable: its end – barring any intervention – human, natural, or supernatural – being subject to her own discretion or indiscretion, if one likes. Thus, her story has met all the requirements of the organizers – the upholders of the great cultural heritage of our great clan. Therefore, this honorable body of judges, hereby, awards to the young D’atta the winning prize!’

The audience erupted in a shout of jubilation.

‘Congratulations, D’atta!’ the chairperson said.

‘Thank you,’ D’atta replied, ‘but I haven’t started yet.’

‘What?’ the chairperson asked in surprise.

‘That story’, D’atta replied, speaking slowly and calmly, ‘was only a preamble. It is now that I want to start, sir.’

‘B-but you’ve already won!’ the spokesperson stammered in disbelief.

‘I must tell my story, sir,’ D’atta calmly insisted.

From the audience, an old man by the name of Otcha-meiroh, a member of D’atta’s extended family, yelled, “Shoo-o! Will you people not let her? Will you people not allow her to complete her fine performance? Eh-jo-or! This is not good-o!’ The audience was beginning to get agitated.

The judges reasoned together, again. They made a decision. Again, their spokesperson stood up and spoke: ‘All right, young lady, you may perform your story. However, be rest assured that the judges’s decision is taken and final. You have already won the contest. Thank you!’

‘Thank you, sir!’ D’atta replied with a smile. Then, she began her story: