The Camwood Calling by Celina Chinwemmeri Ikechukwu

The first time the raffia-covered figure appeared in Ugonma’s dream, she woke with a scream lodged in her throat. Her husband, Dr. Ifedi, pulled her close, still half-asleep. What is It?

She described it as something ancient surrounded by thick swirling smoke. It had turned its back on her, and when it finally faced her, she wished it hadn’t. Ifedi didn’t know what to make of the dream and so they only did what felt right to do. They prayed and he went back to sleep pulling her close, as she was still trembling.

That was three months before the fire. At the time, Ifedi believed his problems were ordinary. His delayed salary, the promotion he lost and the difficulty of affording a proper meal. This was the slow erosion of hope that comes to good men in a hard country. He had returned from the hospital that evening to find Ugonma combing her hair before Bible study.

“Honey, welcome.”

He nodded, too tired to speak. Then, bitterly: “I don’t know why they haven’t paid me and when I finally get it, something will take it all away.”

She rubbed his back. “We’ll survive on my salary.”

He wanted to believe her. But the pattern had already begun. Before she married Ifedi, Ugonma had known a different man, brilliant, respected, the kind of doctor who made people feel safe. They met at a friend’s wedding, courted long-distance between Aba and Abakaliki, and married after fourteen months. Her father had handed them a bundle of broomsticks and prayed: “Together, you will live in harmony, Isee.” 

But now the peace of her house was being tested.

The weeks that followed were an uneasy calm. Then Ugonma missed her period, she didn’t want to get overexcited, so she waited a few more days, before she got a pregnancy test strip to confirm her fragile hope. The strip showed two bright red line. She was elated, waiting happily for her husband to come home. When Ifedi came home that evening, she met him at the door, showing him the strip. He immediately understood, and his face broke into a smile, the wearinesss gave way to  joy, Ugonma saw the happy man she had married again. He lifted her and spun her around their sitting room, laughing heartily. Finally, he was going to be a father.

The very day his long-withheld salary was finally paid, he came home with a bottle of wine to celebrate with Ugonma, but he found her in a pool of blood, lying unconscious on the bedroom floor. His scream for help alerted his neighbors and, with their assistance, Ugonma was taken to the hospital, the doctor confirmed she miscarried her child and, also developed complications. A huge part of his just received salary went into hospital bills. A month later, his stepmother, Nneka, his father’s first wife, who had lovingly raised him after his mother died during childbirth, fell gravely ill. He sent the little he had left for her treatment.

Then came the last straw that broke them, a fire, sparked by a faulty electrical connection, gutted their apartment. By the time they returned home, every property they had in the house had burnt completely. The neighbors had tried, but the fire had already raged too fiercely before anyone noticed it. It had happened in the afternoon when few people stayed at home.

Their church took pity on them and offered them an apartment in church till they get enough to rent an apartment. It was starting life all over.

Ugonma, lying on a thin mattress in their small apartment in church,  remembered the raffia-covered figure and shuddered. She knew something was wrong. Their misfortune had started after that dream, she was very certain it was the cause. They raised money from their meagre savings and got help from friends and family to rent an apartment. That same month, she got pregnant again, and she miscarried again!.

Three nights after the miscarriage, she had the fearful dream again, only this time, the figure spoke.

“Tell your husband to go back and continue his father’s assignment. I am not meant to be left unattended for too long,” the figure thundered, shaking the ground. It repeated the message thrice before vanishing.

Terrified, Ugonma shook her husband violently to wake up. 

“Ugonma, O gini? What is it?” he asked.

Between shuddering breaths, she narrated what she saw. Ifedi was speechless. The message was clear, and heavy. Unsure of what to do, he called his elder sister, who dismissed the dream as the devil’s trick. 

“Pray harder,” she advised. He went to his Pastor and after narrating his ordeal they conducted deliverance prayers, anointing their home, their foreheads, but it was like adding fuel to the fire. The dreams only intensified, this time for Ifedi alone. He saw himself being chased by the raffia figure, and it only stopped the hot pursuit once he had gotten to his father’s compound.

“Go back,” it said. “Continue your father’s work, or you will lose everything.” 

The warnings were now laced with a threat of greater losses.

Then came the mistake that nearly ended his career. He misdiagnosed a patient who later lost vision in one eye. Furious, she had him arrested for negligence. Medical investigations were later carried out: her retina was already beyond saving. She would have gone blind regardless. This was Dr Ifedi’s saving grace, his record was cleared and he was free to go.

Standing outside the police station after gaining his freedom, the feel of the sun on his face made him realize freedom meant nothing if the gods were still chasing him. 

He looked at Ugonma. The need to find a solution to his problem, now stronger. 

“We have to travel to the village, before we lose our lives” he said, his voice flat with a final, exhausted surrender.

The journey to the village was a long, winding road of memory. With every kilometer covered by the driver of the commercial bus he and Ugonma boarded, the past rose up to meet him, reminding him of a life he had consciously left behind. He was not a stranger returning home, but a son preparing himself to confront the very foundation of the life he had built his christian life away from. 

As the city melted into the familiar dusty bush paths that leads to Umuogoliaka, the memories flooded his thoughts. He remembered his father, Nnachi. Not just as the old man he had buried a month after his wedding, but as the powerful, upright Dibia and servant of their village god, Ogoliaka. Ogoliaka was a just god, it did not hesitate to kill its servant If he soils his hands. Ifedi remembered the story of a Dibia who once collected bribe to support a wealthy farmer in a land case. The land originally belonged to a poor widow but due to she didn’t bear a son before her husband died, her wealthy brother in-law decided to claim it. Ogoliaka struck down his servant with a swollen body. Same was the fate of the widow’s brother in-law. The dibia was forced by unseen forces to confess. They died the same day, their corpses dark as charcoal was thrown into the evil forest, because burying them would not only attract curses from Ali, the mother earth, she would also vomit their bodies.

Nnachi’s wives had bore him only daughters until, after assuming his role as the chief priest, his third wife bore him a son. Ifedi was a prayer answered for Nnachi, who saw his son not as a successor of the traditional duty, but as a miracle. He was determined to give Ifedi a good life, the educated life of the white men. When he  won a scholarship to study Optometry in one of prestigious university in Nigeria, Nnachi’s joy knew no bounds. Before Ifedi left for school, Nnachi suggested he should be initiated into the Ogoliaka manhood cult, a customary tradition for every male child of Umuogoliaka. Ifedi kicked against it, as a Christian he wouldn’t take part in such practice. Nnachi did not press too hard, the initiation was customary but not compulsory, it only shielded one from restricted movement during the masquerade seasons. When he thought about his successor, he believed strongly it would not be Ifedi. The position was not a family inheritance, Ogoliaka would choose its next servant from another family. As the bus bumped down the final road to his community, Ifedi understood that his father’s belief had been wrong. Ogoliaka didn’t move on, he had been chosen.

The evening breeze rustled through the trees, swirling its leaves as Ifedi and Ugonma approached his father’s compound, as if announcing the arrival of a prodigal son. His arrival was much of a surprise to his step mother, Nneka. Usually he would Inform her of his coming prior to his arrival. She let a scream of delight as she steadily walked to embrace them. Age and illness has taken away her once agile steps. She didn’t ask questions as she lead them in, but she knew whatever that brought them home suddenly was a matter of urgency. That evening, after the simple meal of pounded yam and Ofeonugbo (bitterleaf soup), Ifedi told her everything. The withheld salaries, the fire, the lost children, the dreams. He spoke of the raffia-covered figure and its ultimatum. 

Nneka listened, her hands folded in her lap. When he finished, she sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of generations. “My son,” she said softly, “this is very strange. From when I was a child, I have never heard Ogoliaka chose its servant twice from a family, this is strange, very strange.”

The next morning, as if summoned by their conversation, three dibias from neighboring communities arrived. Ifedi recognized them instantly, Nze Okoronkwo, and his two colleagues. They were men who had moved in his father’s world, their faces etched with lines of ritual and wisdom. A cold understanding settled in his stomach. He had told no one of his arrival but somehow he knew, they knew he came back the day before. He greeted them with the respect their age demanded. 

Nneka, under Ifedi’s instruction, brought a tray of kola nuts, hot drink and Nzu. Nze Okoronkwo, the eldest, accepted the offering on behalf of the trio. He poured a little portion of the drink, letting it seep into the red earth like a message to the ancestors. He broke the kola nut, lifted a lobe to the sky, and began to pray, his voice steadily low, turning the atmosphere to a serious one.

“He who brought kola is a bringer of life. Furthermore, anyone who presents Nzu, to his visitors has offered peace. May we all be like tomorrow, for tomorrow has no end.”

“Isee,” they chorused, Ifedi nodding as he responded.

When the prayers were done, the old man fixed his gaze on Ifedi. It was a gaze that saw through the soul, straight to the terrified man within.

“You have been running, Ifedi son of Nnachi,” he said knowingly, adjusting his wrapper. “We heard from Ogoliaka and we felt your struggles. It was not punishing you. It was calling you home.”

“How can it call me?” Ifedi’s voice was tense, laced with desperation. “I know nothing of Ogoliaka’s ways, I haven’t even been initiated”

“Ogoliaka chooses anyone as it’s servant, and it has chosen you”. Nze Okoronkwo leaned forward. “Ogoliaka will teach you, as it taught your father when he was chosen. Your struggles in Lagos… the lost children… these were calls. And a call from the gods, If ignored, becomes a curse.”

Those words landed with the force of a physical blow. The lost children. He let out a soft, pained whimper. In that moment, the intellectual and spiritual conflict collapsed into a single, raw, human truth: his refusal had cost him his children.

“I do not know what to do my elders” Ifedi said, stripped of all pride, all resistance. It was the surrender of a man who had run out of road. It is said when a man’s chi isn’t among the group that wants his downfall, such a man is safe. 

Realization dawned on Ifedi that his chi had agreed to be on the same page with Ogoliaka, if not, why wouldn’t  it agree to his own beliefs rather than those of the gods?

The New Yam Festival was a perfect timing for Ifedi to be initiated and to take up his father’s role. The other dibia that came with Nze Okoronkwo had warned that if the rites were not performed before the festival, his safety might become a problem. Nze Okoronkwo understood how heavy this decision was for Ifedi. The young man was a Christian who never believed in the traditional ways of his people, nor had his late father prepared him for such a responsibility. Okoronkwo silently blamed Nnachi for that, he should have asked more questions.

After days of much thinking, Ifedi finally summoned Nze Okoronkwo and announced his decision. His wife and mother protested when he told them, pleading he should hope and pray for a miracle, but his mind was made up. He would not lose his life over stubbornness. He knew he couldn’t outrun this, maybe in the future, maybe one day but for now he had to fill in else he would lose more.

The first day of the initiation process was not dramatic but an overnight affair. A series of solemn, ancient activities. It was a transition from a life he knew to spiritual secrets. On the night of the initiation, his body was rubbed with red camwood. Yellow palm fronds were tied around his waist, and a small cloth covered his loins. Alongside other initiates both old and young, he was led into the thick forest where the rites would take place. Each man carried a clay pot filled with water, it was a symbol of life. At the fast flowing river called Iyi Ogoli, he smashed his pot against the rock which sat firmly against the flowing current. The sound echoed like a gunshot. His old life shattered with it. Then came the oath of secrecy: none must ever reveal the secrets of the cult to women and non-initiates.

His final consecration came with a ritual ablution.  His face was washed with the water used to wash the face of a dog. 

“Now you will see what mortal eyes cannot,” Nze Okoronkwo whispered. When the water dried, Ifedi felt something settle into his bones. He was no longer just Dr Ifedi, he was now the spiritual diviner and servant of Ogoliaka. 

All initiation processes were done successfully. Ifedi decided he would not live as his father did. He would continue his work as an optometrist in Lagos, and would return home only when duty called. Practicing two religions was hard, but he left his fate to God. Torn between faith and fear, he surrendered to the duty that came with his name.

Weeks later, he and Ugonma returned to Lagos. He resumed his work at the hospital. The whispers about his arrest had died down. His first salary was paid in full, and no catastrophe swallowed it. The silence in their home was no longer haunted, but peaceful. A few months later, Ugonma missed her flow again. This time, the pregnancy stayed. The fear was still there, a ghost in the corner, but it faded with each passing month. When the time for delivery came, she gave birth to a son, a strong boy, with sharp eyes that looked exactly like Nnachi. Ifedi didn’t need a soothsayer to tell him Nnachi had reincarnated in their son. His wife disputed this, “There’s no such thing as reincarnation.”

The naming ceremony was a blend of two worlds. In their Lagos sitting room, surrounded by church friends and colleagues, they prayed in the name of Jesus and named the boy “Ebenezer.”

But later, in their quiet bedroom, Ifedi took a piece of kola nut. He opened the window, letting the gentle breeze rush in while he faced the bright moon that stood proudly in the sky. He whispered the names of his father and his grandfather, thanking them. Then, he paid homage to Ogoliaka, greeting the god according to the 4 market days of Igbo land, Eke, Orie, Afor and Nkwo. Ifedi gave his son another name, one to be known only to their lineage, a name for the ancestors to call. He named him Nnanyelugo, for he had given him honor.

Some nights, lying beside Ugonma while she prayed every night for salvation, not just for his soul, but for the light to find their home again, Ifedi would feel the camwood still on his skin though it had washed off months ago. He would wonder: had he saved his family, or simply postponed a different kind of loss? The acceptance of this new role was not out of devotion, but survival.  Ogoliaka had given an option of peace but had not promised to let him keep his soul.

About The Author

Celina Chinwemmeri Ikechukwu is a Nigerian student and writer based in Benin City. She writes poetry and fiction, including short stories and longer narrative works. Her writing explores identity, memory, resilience, love, loss, and the relationship between tradition and modern life, often drawing from African cultures and contemporary everyday experiences.

Her work has received recognition in writing competitions, including the Awele Short Story Prize (2025) for her story “A Window Between Us” and the Yemipoet Poetry Contest (December Edition) for her poem Alchemy of No’s. 

She enjoys reading, observing people, and transforming ordinary moments into stories and poems. She continues to develop her writing through consistent practice and engagement with different literary forms.

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