The more I try to recall the earliest impressions of my childhood, the more surprising the result becomes. I can see myself as a new-born baby, barely a day old, possibly a few hours old, receiving the vigorous attentions of my maternal grandmother.
She sits on a stool in the middle of an airy bedroom, a proud contented look on her face. On the floor beside her is a broad metal basin, more than two feet in diameter, and about eight inches deep. This is half-filled with warm soapy water. Across her knees is spread a waterproof sheeting. On this she supports me with her left hand, while with the other she anoints me from head to foot with a rich lather of native black soap. My eyes are tighly shut, my mouth wide open in a yell of protest.
As she vigorously rubs away, the yelling continues, and the roomful of women look on approvingly. ‘unto us a son is born!, they cry. Having thoroughly lathered me, my grandmother dips me into the basin of water, and scoops the contents all over me. As the water runs into my mouth, I shut up sharp.Half choking, I gulp hard, swallow, and let out a yell of even louder protest. My grandmother ignores me, and carries on with her task. Then she lifts me on to her lap, and towels me briskly.
The assembled ladies take a look at my fat little face with its squashed nose and puffy little eyes, and say admiringly:
‘ just like his daddy!’
There is a coalpot, that is, an open charcoal brazier, burning brightly near at hand. From it someone lifts out a small oval stone about six inches long, worn smooth. Normally it is the ‘daughter stone’ which is used to grind pepper, spices, egusi, lokos, and other cooking ingredients on a large flat mother stone. Now, it has been washed and brought to a red heat, and so thoroughly sterilised. Some water is poured on it, causing a fierce sizzle: but it still remains dull red-hot.
A little piece of clean cotton cloth is dipped in a glass of water, squeezed out, and pressed on the stone. It is than lifted up, allowed to cool a bit, and then applied firmly to the end of the birth cord dangling from my navel. Thus sterilised the cord is folded and bandage into position. This will be repeated daily until it drops off.
‘ The agbo, don’t forget the agbo! they remaind her, as the door opens, and somebody comes in with a small half-gourd full of a special kind of herbal tea. My grandmother testes it to check the temperature, and then lifting me up gently she pulls her skirt well up her plump left thing.
She lays me along this limb, with my head over knees, her left arm supporting my back and head and holding the ground, some of the contents of which she pours into her right hand held cupped against my mouth. She heaves in a quantity of the liquid smartely as I open my mouth to cry. I choke, swallow instinctively, take a good breath and open my mouth wide for a tremendous yell. But she is ready, and immediatly I receive another dose into the back of my throat. I splutter, shut my eyes tight, kick out, go stiff with anger and open wide for a truly nasty yell of protest; but again she is ready and heaves in the right quantity of agbo with practised aim. So the duel continues, each yell stopped by a dose of tea, followed by a swallow, a holding of the breath, and an attempt at an even louder yell, which meets with the same fate, until the gourd is empty. So I have my first drink
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