Goat Meat for Naming Ceremony; 15 Signs You Served in the Peace Corps

Karen, a member of Friends of Nigeria, sent a link to a Huffington Post article called 15 Signs You Served in the Peace Corps, with pictures. I loved it. If you haven’t already seen it, you may want to look. You can find it here.

I liked two ‘signs’ the best: numbers 7 and 9 – you never take air conditioning for granted, and you regard a flush toilet as a luxury! My husband’s village Nanka, which we visit regularly when we go to Nigeria, and where I lived for a year during the Biafran War, had neither for many years.

Today we have both! There is electricity, but it’s sporadic. We have a generator there now, and last year my husband put an air conditioner in the bedroom. I don’t think we need it, at least not most of the time. And the time I would value it – to keep out the sound of the roosters that wake me every morning – we don’t have it on. We would have to run the noisy generator all night for that. So I wake to the crowing roosters.

Here is a segment from my memoir about our trip to the village for our first son’s naming ceremony. It takes you up to the beginning of the event. Next time I’ll give you more of the ceremony.

The naming ceremony would take place on Saturday afternoon and evening. The whole clan had been invited, so there would be 70 or 80 people. ‘Invited’ means that Clem’s father had told some of the younger men to notify everyone. We had to provide a feast.

“Do I need to help prepare the food?” I asked Mama in my still faltering Igbo.

“No,” she assured me. Obele, the wife of my uncle-in-law, had rallied the ndi ntaru di, her cohort of women married into the family, to make jollof rice with goat meat, garri, pounded cassava and okra soup, with more of the goat meat. Ejike had already slaughtered the Igbo goat when we arrived. I caught the pungent smell of burning hair from the next compound.

The goat was being singed to burn off its hair before it was cut up and added to the rice and soup. You can barely see the goat’s neck and head – the brown area – to the right on the fire in the photo.

Before we went to bed I went over to thank the seven women who had begun cooking. They stirred the contents of huge iron pots set on tripods over open fires. I took the baby with me. I had seen the two women married to Clem’s uncles on my brief visit 18 months earlier, but had not spoken to them or even seen the others who were helping.

“Dalu. Thank you,” I said to one and then another. They were dressed for cooking, in wrappers – six feet of cotton cloth tied at the waist – and blouses that looked well used. One woman had her baby tied on her back with an extra piece of cloth.

“Nno, nwunye Clement, welcome, Clement’s wife,” they said. Obele reached out to take the baby, holding him so the others could see. “O maka, he’s good-looking,” a younger woman said, and the others chorused their agreement. I thought their boisterous voices would wake him, but he slept on. With their warm greetings and obvious joy at seeing my baby, I felt close to them. I was now part of the extended family and I belonged here.

A few minutes later I took Chinaku back to our house. Our bedroom faced the compound where the women were cooking. Well into the night I could hear them singing and talking. The aroma of the goat meat being cooked was much more pleasant than the burning hair had been.

Benches borrowed from the nearby Anglican Church were put in place in front of the house on Saturday morning. I learned later that, taking no chances, the rainmaker, or rain preventer in this case, had been visited and the spirits mollified. At 3:00 in the afternoon I nursed Chinaku and then dressed in the fanciest item in my wardrobe, a fitted dress of woven Akwete cloth in blue, green and red. I asked Rosa, my nanny, to dress Chinaku in his blue cotton kimono with embroidered flowers. Clem wore his Igbo wrapper at home, but was not yet accustomed to Igbo dress for formal occasions, and wore his suit trousers with a loose paisley print shirt that he loved.

Around 4:00 people started to gather. Clem and I had seats of honor with Clem’s parents and uncles in front of the house. Mama wore her best wrapper, a blue print with matching blouse and head tie. Papa was dignified in his long gown of the same fabric. He had added a felt cap of dark blue and a walking stick.

When the space in front of the house was full, Ejike stood up. “Ndi be anyi, kwenu, my people, rejoice.” The guests shouted, “Kwenu.” He turned to his left, then his right, with the same greeting. Each time the response was louder and Chinaku began crying.  I rocked him in my arms. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”