The Dibia, Conclusion; Scholarships for Nigerian Girls

Good Journalism Makes a Difference

I have no news about the missing girls, but I do have news about the impact of good journalism and citizen action. My friend and Peace Corps colleague BarbaraLee Toneatti sent me an article by Leonard Pitts, a reporter for the Miami Herald, who wrote about his frustration with actions against girls in Nigeria and elsewhere. He needed to take action, he said. “That led me to the Peace Corps Nigeria Alumni Foundation, or PCNAF.org, a small group of Peace Corps vets in greater Washington, D.C., that exists for the specific purpose of providing scholarships for Nigerian girls. I spoke to their president, Albert Hannans.” Pitts concluded his article by saying he sent a small donation.

A month later Pitts reported that the organization has received $35,000 and counting in contributions as a result. His conclusion – people can make a difference. “Wow,” he said. And I say “wow” and thank you to him for those two articles!

BarbaraLee wrote. “Florence, Kathy and I taught in the Provincial Girls Secondary School in Maiduguri 51 years ago. It breaks my heart to think of what it would have been like to have our girls abducted. I cannot remember giving any thought in those days to the possibility that educating our girls was something that anyone would find objectionable! She also suggested a way we can all help. I’ll write about it next time.

I’ll see other former Nigeria Peace Corps volunteer colleagues in Nashville next week where the kidnapped girls will be very much on our minds.

The Dibia Part V Conclusion

And now for the end of the story about the Dibia. Four days ago – on the last Afo – I told you that the Dibia gave a calabash to Obi, and told him what to say. Now it’s the day of the wake. (You can read the first four parts of the story in earlier blog posts.)

As the sun set, the wake began. Guests sat on folding metal chairs or benches borrowed from the church. The umu ada, having achieved what they wanted, had positions of honor to the right. The ndi anutara di, my group of women married into the family, was seated behind them. Papa’s brothers, including Obi, sat in front of the veranda. I sat with my husband next to the brothers. As the compound filled, I watched ominous clouds gathering. I glanced at Obi. He pointed to the ground below his chair where I saw the calabash.

I was torn. Part of me hoped the rain would cascade in buckets, everyone would have to disperse, and we would all see that the Dibia couldn’t prevent the rain. But the other part hoped that rain would actually start, and Obi would stop it with the calabash, using the words the Dibia had told him to say.

There were prayers, hymns and songs, including a moving solo by Clem’s sister Grace. After forty-five minutes, a light rain started to fall. “Oh, no,” Clem said to me, “the wake will be ruined. There is no cover for all the people.”

I turned to watch Obi pull the calabash from under his chair. He began rubbing it while muttering softly. I nudged Clem and pointed toward Obi. “What’s he doing?” Clem said.

“What does it look like?” I said. And as if on command, the rain stopped. “I guess I didn’t tell you that I went with Obi to the Dibia a few days ago,” I said.

“I can’t believe it! How did he agree to take you?”

“I just asked. The Dibia didn’t mind. We had to go back with offerings. That’s when he gave Obi the calabash. And look at the result,” I said, looking up at the night sky, cloudy and humid, but free of rain. Obi kept the calabash beside him for the rest of the night and used it again when a few threatening drops fell.

I retreated to our bedroom around two in the morning. The recorded gospel music and occasional hymns from the people outside continued until four, when people dispersed, so I slept little.

As I hauled myself out of bed in the morning I was surprised to see that there were fewer clouds. “Look,” I said to Clem, “the Dibia must have driven the clouds away.” I laughed at hearing myself – I sounded as if I believed in the power of the Dibia. Whether or not he had caused the weather to change, I was relieved as we dressed for the day.

Several young men had been at work early in the morning to dig the grave near the wall that divided our compound from Ejike’s. Later that morning, we took our seats again as the crowd reassembled. Ejike, Obi, and Ebueme, the three remaining brothers, carried the coffin from the house. With barely a cloud in sight, Papa’s body was laid to rest in our compound.

Mama remained on the veranda surrounded by her cohort of relatives. How sad that she couldn’t say goodbye to the man she had married nearly fifty years earlier. But she had bowed to other traditions before, as she had in the last week, so this was not a heavy burden for her. Her church people sang a hymn while the coffin was lowered.

Then Jonathan led the Anglican funeral litany, “Dust to dust,” he said, as the grave was covered with dirt. Obi did not need the calabash again. He kept it, but it had no more power. The Dibia had done his work.

The picture is from 1974, five years before Papa’s death, at the consecration of Clem’s cousin Jonathan as Bishop on the Niger. Jonathan is in the center, my husband Clem is on his right, I’m next, and Papa is beside me. Mama is at the right after Jonathan’s wife Beatrice and Clem’s sister Monica. The Bishop’s son Obi is standing behind his mother and Monica. Edna, another of Clem’s sister, is on the left in the back row. Grace who sang at Papa’s funeral was not in the picture.

Is there an important funeral you’ve attended recently? Did anyone try to influence the weather?