The Heavy One
Dedicated to Ibealoke Chukwuezili aka Apama
You must have heard about him and if you haven’t heard, then listen carefully. One bright morning, a middle-aged man returning from Lagos, appeared in Upper Iweka Market walking gallantly through the makeshift stalls clutching two bags, chubby, happy, trimmed sides, no mustache, no beard, smiling, smiling. He was all puffy and proud, and because of the way he walked and carried himself, people tried to see if they could scare him. Bus drivers, conductors, touts, thieves, tugs tried their luck, but this man wasn’t one you could scare easily. He walked gallantly on the streets of Upper Iweka with the grandeur of a titled man.
It was a windy and sunny day blessed with a light shower of rain that calmed the dust and made it apt for walking. The wind burrowed deeper across the brown roof landscape, separating leaves from the wet sands and lifting them towards the river Niger, with a light November touch. Dressed in ishiagu, a red cap to go with it, marching gallantly like the force of the wind, the man walked from shop to shop buying items for the great festival coming up in his home town, Arondizuogu. This man with no name armed with a lot of pride and smile walked towards the bridge after buying all the items required to wear the mask to be debuted at the masquerade festival on Christmas day.
Have you been Upper Iweka? The legendary road in Onitsha. Just around the flyover, where cars pass both on top and below the bridge. A lot has happened on this road. Men walleyed by hoodlums. Hoodlums captured and beaten. Taxmen constantly patrolled this route and collected whatever they could from whomever. Whatever happened along this route was just the way and the life around it. It was part of its legend and its gory. Upper Iweka was were good and the evil met on a daily basis.
So, it happened that this man was passing along this route and out of nowhere four men approached him and blocked his path. He tried to move forward and they stopped him. He tried to go backward and they stopped him. The man with no name begged for passage, but they refused.
“What did I do?” the man inquired. They ignored him.
The one wearing a singlet, brisk and short-tempered, after what seemed to be like a brief moment of silence and harassment, decided to speak up, “Dia anyi, where is your tax papers?” he demanded.
“What is your rate? It must be three years oh!” the one on his left side said.
“What tax money?” the man asked, and tried to shrug them off. “So, this is how you harass people on this road? This is how you steal from the people of this city?”
“Are you shouting at us?” the one wearing singlet asked.
What they didn’t know was that the man was Pericoma, and it never crossed their mind. One of the men held his left leg, and another held his hands behind his back, and another proceeded to search his pocket and collected a wad of cash he stashed there. And then after collecting his money, the short-tempered guy asked him to get away and keep walking. They pushed him to move forward, but he refused to move.
“Are you asking me to get away? After stealing my money, you are asking me to get away? After searching my pocket, you are asking me to get away? I thought you said you were tax collectors and good citizens of this country? Please, you have to give me back my money,” The man demanded with sullenness.
What the men still didn’t know is that this was Pericoma. Pericoma the heavy one. These four men started shouting at him, pushed him around and kept asking him if he was calling them a thief.
“For this reason, you must go to the office,” the men threatened.
“I am going nowhere unless you give me back my money,” Pericoma answered them with an air of defiance.
The leader commanded the three others to grab him, and before he could say another word, one grabbed his left leg, another grabbed his right leg, and the third lifted him from behind. Three men as high as shit lifted Pericoma and carried him through the streets of Upper Iweka to their office. Pericoma kept quiet and said nothing. When the got to the office, the tax officer was seating inside and observing what was going on. He was a dwarf wearing aviator sunglasses and a cap, with papers scattered on his desk. He removed his cap and sunglasses and watched the drama unfolding in front of his office.
The men brought Pericoma into the tax office and wanted to set him down, but they soon realized that they couldn’t set him down or move their hands either. They all seemed frozen with the weight of Pericoma bearing down on them. Pericoma defied every law of gravitational pull and stuck in their arms. They tried to lift him up so as to rest their arms, but there wasn’t any chance of him moving out of that exact position. They carried him outside and stood in the open, at least the fresh air was something to be glad about. The three men were sweating and tired and yet they couldn’t put him down. These three men high as fuck started crying and begging for help. People came from all corners of Upper Iweka just to see Pericoma and the drama that was unfolding. Some people said that they deserved it and while the others pitied them. The tax officer came out and asked what was going.
“Set the man down,” the tax officer commanded, and with disbelief as to what was going on.
“We can’t.”
“He is too heavy.”
“Please come and help us, anyone please.”
They begged, but no one came to help them because they were trying to figure out what was going on too, and it was unbelievable to imagine that they couldn’t just set the man down. So, it happened that among the crowd, a man recognized Pericoma, slightly. But he wasn’t sure yet, but all the same, he decided to speak up.
“I know who this man is,” the man said and scratched his bald head, placed his index finger on his lips, and tried to remember. “This man must be from Arondizuogu, this man is a member of the Arondizuogu masquerade.” Now it became clearer and clearer to the man. He remembered it now, he walked up to the dwarf whom he quickly recognized as the leader, touched him and said, “do you have any idea who you are holding? Do you know who this man is?” He walked closer to Pericoma and surveyed him closely, and came to the conclusion that it couldn’t have been any other person. He walked back to the Dwarf, rubbed his bare head and said, “do you have any idea who you are holding? This is the masquerade of Arondizuogu himself. This is Pericoma. The evil child born of a woman. The most powerful charm-maker among his peers. Half-human, half-spirit. My advice, you have to go and beg him, unless you are all in trouble.”
The Tax Officer knelt down immediately and started begging. Some of the concerned onlookers started begging Pericoma. They begged him for almost thirty minutes, and yet he said nothing. By now, the men carrying were shedding tears like children. Their arms were weakened and yet they were unable to put him down. Their clothes were drenched in sweat and tears, and their mouth that talked all the time was now tired with pleading.
“Officer!” Pericoma screamed, “Now, go and get a pen and paper.”
The Dwarf ran into the office and came out with a pen and paper. And started writing all the items he wanted them to buy.
“Small he-goat, a big ram, white cock, white hen, one carton of St. Remy, five cartons of Guinness Stout. Now, my money. All the money you took from is five thousand naira, it must be returned in full. All the items plus my money is fifty thousand naira, and I want it in cash.”
People started throwing money at him like the big masquerade he was, some danced, some clapped, and others praised him. In a couple of minutes, the red sand was filled with money. The Tax Officer went into the office and came out with bundles of money too. Someone among the crowd volunteered to count the money. In total, it was fifty thousand Naira. The Tax Officer knelt down and presented the money to him.
“Now listen, it is not everyone that you see walking down this path that you will harass. I hope you have learned your lesson.”
“Yes, Sir,” they all replied.
“Idiot.”
“Yes, Sir,” they all replied.
“Con artists.”
“Yes, Sir,” they all replied.
“Thieves.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Alright, now bring down Pericoma, the son of Okoye,” Pericoma finally relieved them from their misery. The three men that were carrying him, gently let him down and fell on the ground panting. Out of breath. Cried and wailed like children. They asked for water, and the people gave them water. Pericoma slouched towards the sunset with his bag and money and occasionally turned around to curse them out again.
“This man is too heavy,” they kept saying. “I have never seen anyone as heavy as this.” “My neck is paining me now.” “Me too.” “Me too.”
So, it happened that after this event, in Upper Iweka, before tax collectors would harass anyone, they will first ask him if he was from Arondizuogu. They will check you very well to make sure that you are not Pericoma or someone in the masquerade. Did you say I should chase him? No, why don’t you go and chase him? He might be Pericoma, and Pericoma is too heavy. Too heavy that no tax collector in Onitsha could forget easily, and to this day. Here, there were no rules, not even the church could counter the fear that Pericoma had instilled in them. Ahh, those days that burned lightly and brightly for all to see. The news was carried by the wind departing from Upper Iweka and dropped in all in all corners of Igboland. We all heard about him. And to this day, Pericoma is still the heavy one.
