The Last Rainmaker

 It was the year 2050. The North West winds carried the dust from the Sahara and threw it into the Okitankwo River. It blew across the rainforests and the savannah like a goddess of vengeance, carrying brown sand and hot-blooded reptiles. We had never witnessed a dry season so vicious. That year, our river didn’t come home. 

Mama told me that four weeks after I was born, I was cradled by the traditional priest who scooped a handful of water from the enamel bowl and sprinkled the droplets on my head. I let out a wail as the cold water drenched me.  Then I was given to Papa who raised me with outstretched hands to the wet skies and called on the elements of the universe to acknowledge me. He whispered my names: Ojiugo — beautiful; Mmiriozuzo — beautiful rain; Nnenna — my mother has returned.  

He took my umbilical cord and buried it under the leaves of the udala tree, whose roots reached deep into the ground. The tree had been a wonder in its youth when the waters ran through its veins, but now, its snarling face etched on its bark was ridden with woody wrinkles, recalling the agony of its death. It looked twisted and thirsty. 

The Nigerian government declared a state of emergency because climate change had ravaged the country. It happened too fast: the rains did not come in April, the heat increased, and the dust tainted the air. I remembered the newspaper headlines, the radio banter, and the various talks of ‘climate change is fake’ and ‘global warming is a conspiracy theory’. 

The heat was relentless as I sat on the veranda, pondering the loss of the place I had once called home. I tried to cry, but my eyes were dry. It was as if the November sun had reached into my eyelids and milked all the tears I had left. Nigeria had been without rain for over three years. The Okitankwo River eventually bowed to pressure. It was the last of the seven rivers in Umunnachi to dry up.

Mama said that the gods were angry with us and that there was a fierce battle between Anyanwu and Mmiriozuzo in the land of the spirits. Anyanwu had refused to let Mmiriozuzo take her place in the space of elements. Ikuku had been lost since the battle began, and Egbe Eluigwe barked for Anyanwu to back down without success. Chukwuokike, the creator of all, had washed his hands off the sibling rivalry and placed them in the hands of rainmakers as intercessors. 

The succession of rainmakers ended with my father, Pa Uzoka. He had been a no-good lover of frothy palm wine and the deep rhythmic beats of the ikoro drums. They announced the coming of the Ofa season, where the first crops were harvested and given to the gods. 

The rain makers, ogha mmiri, were a revered group of people who sat above the chief priests because of their terrifying powers. They were able to assemble all the elements, ensuring a balance of the ecosystem. Masters of the weather, they were called upon to hold the rain in some places and let the sun shine in others. It was magic, the kind of power they had. They pacified Anyanwu as the dry season began, urging him not to smite people with the high intensity of his sunny fury and to bow out at the right time for Onwa to rule the night so the children could come out for moonlight games. 

They begged Ikuku not to rip young roots from the soil in anger. They praised Mmiriozuzo for her generosity and pleaded that she pour in grace and splendour, nourishing the plants and not carrying them away in the floods. They also appealed to Egbe Eluigwe, who had a quick temper, not to strike innocent people in anger as he ushered in Mmiriozuzo. Each element was kept in its place, rotating power according to its season, until Anyanwu fell out with Mmiriozuzo, citing the excess veneration the rain was given. 

Pa Uzoka was the most unsuccessful rainmaker in the line of those who called down rain. He would gather the leaves from the forest, set them on fire, and leap around the flame, muttering incantations that yielded a few thunderclaps but not a single drop of rain. He would wonder if he had used the right leaves or missed out on some words of the incantations. Then, he would walk to the Oja Bar in the heart of the village close to the famous Nkwo Mmili market to drink palm wine and argue with others that it wasn’t the end of the world and one day, rain would fall. People held up their noses as he walked by, embarrassed that he had failed his fathers before him. He sought the village witch doctor, Unoaku, to ask why he couldn’t make rain. 

“Uzoka, first son of Oluoma, the 19th in the glorious line of rainmakers. You have lost the spiritual connection to your ancestors.” She glared at him through heavily lined otangele eyelids. 

“How can we open up the energy portals and pacify Anyanwu?” he quizzed. 

“That is for you to find out. You can make a sacrifice of goats, kola nuts, and chickens.” She turned her back to him, hitting the drum and serenading the oracle. 

“Taahhh, it seems the gods are hungry. Ask my ancestors if they left any goat or fowl for me before they left.” 

He never found the way till he died a year later, hugging his palm wine gourd closely to his chest. He died without a son, so it was assumed that the line of rainmakers was lost and would instead find its way to another family in the village. His room was cleared of his belongings, and the only thing I got was the long shrivelled stick he hit on the ground so that dark clouds could gather. I loved the stick and played in the yard with it, ignoring Mama’s instructions that I should play as a girl who had seen thirteen Nigerian harmattans and someone’s future wife. 

“No man will marry a lady with one eye or one ear when he has lots of choices,” she said.

Who even wants to marry him? I thought.

That afternoon, Mama returned with a basket and a small bundle of dried greens, almost in tears.

“The water is not enough, and these vegetables will die. What are we going to eat?” she asked rhetorically, looking at me helplessly. 

It was painful watching her, knowing there was nothing I could do about it. I knew how hard she had worked the last planting season to cater to the crops and ensure we had something to eat. She woke up very early in the morning to weed the caked-up land, planted drought-resistant crops like maize and okra, and sprinkled them in the little water she could find so that their roots would not be stifled in the ground. It was heartbreaking to look into the basket and see three stalks of shrivelled leaves as a reward for all her efforts. We were supposed to cook ofe egusi with the ugu. I had already ground the dry egusi and pepper.

“Let me go and see Mama Chinyere, maybe she will have little left for me to use and cook dinner.” 

She left. I had never seen her that helpless before. For a long time, after my father’s death, I had not attempted rainmaking because it was a general belief that the powers weren’t resident in females. No female child could cross the beyond, appear before the gods, and beg for the war between Anyanwu and Mmiriozuzo to end. I walked to Papa’s room and observed the sleeping mat rolled up in a corner, a calabash holding some eggs, candle sticks, and dried herbs, the last ones he used. 

I picked the leaves, achara, ubachala, and igolo, and walked before our compound. There, I got a clear view of the blue sky,  tilting my eyes to the heavens. I slowly got the mortar and pestle and crushed the leaves together, wondering if I was doing the right thing by attempting the rituals. I was worried that an inevitable curse lay for a young girl like me trying to intercede for the people if there was punishment for a child whose heart broke at the tears of her mother. I put the leaves on the ground, then remembered I had left out the most important plant, the three-leaved achara mmuo.

I walked out of the compound to the side of the road where I had seen Papa pluck them, picked a large quantity of the purplish-pink leaf, brought it back, and crushed it with the other. Then I set it on fire before walking around the fire, muttering the words Papa taught me. The fire, which started slowly, grew with each word I spoke. It kissed the leaves slowly, gathering momentum. 

“Ikuku, Anyanwu, Onwa, Mmiriozuzo, Egbe Eluigwe!” I called in the loudest voice I knew. : Gee nu nti, abum onye nke iri abuo na agburu ndi ogha mmiri, meepee uzo mmuo kam gafee.” — I am Ojiugo, the Twentieth descendant in the line of descendants, open the gateway of the spirits for me to pass.  The smoke became thick and I coughed as it kissed the skies. 

I hit the wooden staff on the sun-baked earth and the ground around me vibrated, sending shock waves as I felt my spirit leaving my body and appearing in another world, a landscape with colourful butterflies and crops. It was a beautiful world with a cool breeze and coconut trees swaying from side to side in obedience to the wind. I noticed three horsemen who rode towards me, wielding whips and screaming in a language I didn’t understand.         

The horses stopped before me and jumped down, walking in unison to where I stood. My heart thumped heavily inside my chest and I began to regret ever trying to make rain so my Mama’s crops would not die. They were men with intricate Nsibidi tattoos that ran the length of their bodies; some had the shape of birds, the sun, the moon, and other forces of nature. Their faces were hidden in masks save their eyes, white as cotton pods. Nothing about them showed they were human, and I fell to the ground, face bowed, overwhelmed by their presence. 

“Who are you?” all of them spoke at once, their voices like thunder in a desert. 

“I am Ojiugo, the 20th, the daughter of Uzoka, the last rainmaker of Umunnachi.”

They exchanged horrified, confused glances. 

“It has been years since a rainmaker crossed over to this side, much less a young girl. The gods favour you and your heart is still pure. Follow us, let us go and see the gods.” 

They carried me on one of the horses, and we galloped for what seemed like hours before coming to a big cave with the same markings I had seen on the men's bodies. Others like them stood armed with swords and spears at the cave entrance. They let us through the entrance as the pathway snaked in front of us before arriving at the mouth of a big room, where I heard arguments from inside. 

“Wait here,” they told me as they entered the room. 

“I salute you, gods of our land,” I heard. 

“I hope you bring good news. I have had a slow afternoon,” someone roared as thunder boomed. 

“Indeed, something unusual has happened. A rainmaker has come before you.”

There was silence for a few seconds, and I imagined what was happening in their minds. Would they kill me? Will they make sure my spirit never reunites with my body? My legs felt weak. Mama would cry and cry. 

“That is the first in so many years, bring the rainmaker to us.” 

“That is one part. She is a woman.”

There was an uproar that almost swept me off my feet. 

“A woman?” came a soft voice. “Alu!” How did she manage to cross over to this side?”

“The ways of Chukwuokike are mysterious and it seems like she has found favour in his eyes.”

“Send her away,” one announced.

I felt a sinking feeling in my belly. I had come too far and risked my life only to be sent back without having them hear what I had to say. 

Before the guard would come to send me away, I stumbled into the room without thinking and everyone held their breath in horror. 

“I am Ojiugo, the 20th, daughter of Uzoka, the last rainmaker of Umunnachi,” I introduced myself.

 I noticed that the gods of the land were all wearing symbolic masks. Anyanwu had balls of fire in his eyes and fire blew from his mouth when he spoke. Onwa was as white as the clouds; her eyes sparkled and her lips were the shape of the half moon. Ikuku was invisible and elusive like the wind, I could only hear her when she spoke. Mmiriozuzo was quiet, translucent as a raindrop, looking at me with amusement in her eyes. Egbe Eluigwe had a wild grin, and the room reverberated with flashes whenever he spoke. They sat in a circle, bearing down on me in the centre. I dropped my long stick and bowed humbly. 

“I have come from far to seek rain.”

They kept quiet, weighing my words in their heads, while passing confusing glances at each other. 

“I am just a little girl familiar with the ways of her father and heartbroken at the tears of my mother. I want rain to fall so we won’t die of hunger and thirst,” I pressed further.  

“What makes you think you can stumble into the Council of the gods and make outrageous demands?” the fire in Anyanwu’s eyes threatened to light up the place. 

“I am a rainmaker, the one in control of all the elements and with the power Chukwuokike bestowed on me, do I come to you?”

Another spell of silence followed. 

“Anyanwu, you are the sun god. For a long time, the people of the earth have abandoned the way of the gods and underestimated our power as fuel for the world's running, but we know your importance in the cycle of life. Anyanwu ututu, ka iwe gi di oku – let the rain have her turn and let the Earth quench its thirst.” 

Anyanwu turned his face away as I begged. I opened and burst into an old rhyme to serenade him. 

“Anyanwu ututu, biko kwenu ka mmiri zoo ka umu uwa nwenu anuri – nyom yom, 

Oh morning sun, please let the rain fall, let the children come out to play

Ikuku, Onwa na etiri oha, Egbe Eluigwe, Mmiriozuzo, biko yowanu nwanne unu –     nyom yom’ 

Wind, moon, thunder, rain please beg your brother, the sun”

The music was so spiritual that Anyanwu turned with a little smile. Even the other gods had turned to him to make peace with Mmiriozuzo and let the rain fall. There was nothing left, I had unlocked the portal to the heart of the spirits. He and Mmiriozuzo shook hands, marking an end to the rift and thunder boomed in the room. 

“Ojiugo the 20th, the only child and daughter of Uzoka.” Anyanwu cleared his throat. “We have accepted you to be the next rainmaker and first of her kind in the line of succession.” He took my long stick, put his breath on it, and passed it to the others, who held it for some time and imbued it with their powers. 

The long stick soaked it up and floated back to me. There was a bright flash of light and I felt a renewed energy flowing through my body's portals, revitalising me. The same Nsibidi markings appeared on my skin, running the length of my arms and back. They were very peculiar, highlighting the elements and their intersection, which was me, to bring balance. 

“Whenever you need us, say the words, strike this staff on the ground, and the universe will heed your call.”

I bowed again, thanked Anyanwu and Mmiriozuzo for making peace, and turned to leave. 

“One thing, young one. Rainmaking is sacred, known only by a few and will be passed down to your offspring. It should not be used forcefully or in addition with any other craft to prevent its corruption. Your father tried using it in exchange for money and almost sold it before we cut him off. Do not be like your father, use your powers to make the people you love happy.”

I nodded before being carried by Ikuku who sucked me in and vomited me right in front of my mother’s house. Immediately, I recited the words of Anyanwu and struck the stick on the ground, the Nsibidi tattoos on my skin started to glow and thunder replied to me in the distance as dark clouds began to gather in the sky. The first rain drop touched my forehead. 

“Send down the rain!” I screamed and the heavens opened. It started drizzling before pouring. 

I turned just in time to see Mama and Mama Chinyere coming back, staring at me, mouths wide open in utter shock. They stopped in the rain, looked at me, and each other with unbelieving eyes. My mother wiped the rain drops from her face to be sure she wasn’t dreaming as the basket fell from her hands. 

“Ojiugo!” She scrambled towards me and shook me, looking up to the heavens. Overwhelmed, I collapsed in her arms. 

That night, after dinner, Mama called me into her room. 

    “Ojiugo Uzoka.”      

She only called me by my full name anytime I was in trouble. Other days were Omalicha or Oyoyo nwa. She tapped a low wooden stool three times and asked me to sit. I did, looking her in the eyes. She observed me closely, trying to check if anything about me had changed and if I was still her beautiful, innocent-looking daughter with bright brown eyes and thick brown hair. She tore my clothes open, running her index finger down my tattoos. 

“What happened today, Ojiugo?” she finally asked. 

I narrated everything to her — how I had tried to harness rain so our crops wouldn’t die. The more I explained, the more her eyes widened, staring at me in disbelief. 

“I did it for you, Mama. I didn’t want you to cry.”

A tear escaped her eyes. 

“Your father lost his way trying to call the rain down. It is a divine gift and a curse to bear the fate of people on your shoulders. You are too young, my child.”  She placed her hand on my cheeks. “You should protect yourself and your powers till you are old enough to understand them fully. With great power comes great responsibility.” 

I nodded, absorbing her words. I placed my head on her knees, and she stroked my hair. 

For weeks, I kept it to myself, wore clothes that covered my body, and went about my duties. Sometimes, I made the rain fall and was happy when I heard the screams of excited children that came out to play and float paper boats in the running water. 

“Did you hear?” Mama Chinyere asked Mama the day she visited us. “I heard on the radio that the Nigerian government is aware of rainmakers based on studies carried out by University Professors. Also, the Meteorological Commission is taking note of rural communities that are seeing sparse or abundant rain and observing what is happening there. Nobody knows their plans but knowing this government, it can never be good. They will suck Ojiugo dry and spit her away like sugarcane. Rain makers are endangered species now”

Mama looked at me as I pounded cocoyam, which would be used to thicken the soup. 

“Ojiugo, ngwa, enter inside,” she ordered. 

I entered but remained close enough to listen to their conversation.

“They are expected any time from now.”  

When she left, Mama called me and asked me to pull my ears. 

“Bia, Ojiugo, you must stay indoors more often. I will run the errands, and if you must go, you will not wear any clothes that will reveal your body and these tattoos. You must never tell anyone about your powers.”

“Okay, Mama.”

The day the government officials came, I had just finished eating the last piece of yam floating in the red oil when I heard the screams outside. 

“Ndi gomenti abiala o, they have come and are waiting in the town hall.”                                       

I heard the scampering of feet and the sound of people rushing down the pathway. I threw the yam in my mouth, washed my hands and ran out the door, neglecting Mama’s warning to remain indoors always. I had grown bored of it. 

The town hall was almost full when I got there, some people had to perch on the windows.  I scanned the hall, looking for Mama and caught her brown face squeezed between Mama Chinyere and another friend who had a stall next to hers in the market.  She was fully immersed in the discussion she was having with her friends. I knew she would be mad if she saw me, and pull my ears and drag me back to the house. I hid myself in the crowd as the officials mounted the stage with their well-starched uniforms and one of them spoke. 

“People of Umunnachi, you have seen the dire state of this beloved country and the drought it is facing.  Many studies have been carried out on the way forward, and we have learned that there has been abundant rainfall here recently, which can only mean one thing. There is an ogha mmiri in your midst and we need you to produce him now.”

There was a ripple of noise in the crowd as people looked at each other, unsure what to make of the news. One person raised his hand in the crowd. 

“You are correct that we have had a history of rainmakers in this village, but the last one was useless and died without a male successor to carry on the work. The line is lost to our people.”

“There should be some explanation for the unnatural rain in your community. The spirit of the rainmaker has chosen someone in your community to continue.”

There was pandemonium, no one knew what to believe. It was true that a great amount of rain had fallen but no one knew the source. 

“If we don’t get someone, we will take every male child to our headquarters in Lagos and test them. We did not come here to play.”  

I knew the threat wasn’t an ordinary one. As if to punctuate the point, the armed guards began rounding up the boys, pushing and shoving them into buses. Both children and teenagers, and many were crying for their mothers. The hall erupted in chaos and confusion. It was then I caught Mama’s eye. I couldn’t let them take the innocent young ones. She glared at me, reading my thoughts as she knew the child she bore and what I could do. She shook her head, urging me to stay quiet but my lips moved faster than my thoughts and I screamed:

“I am who you want! I am the last ogha mmiri”

The hall came to a standstill as everyone looked in my direction. 

“I am Ojiugo the 20th, daughter of Uzoka, first of her kind, and the last rainmaker.” 

An official came forward, laughing, before striking me on my head. 

“Little girl, we are not here to play games.” 

‘I am not playing games. I am the last rainmaker.”

“Prove it,” he said. 

I positioned myself and raised my long-sleeve shirt to reveal my tattoos. Then, I whispered the words and struck my stick hard on the ground. The sound reverberated as everyone shouted at the scene in front of them. Somewhere in the skies, thunder boomed. 

 I repeated it much to the shock of the officials. My mother tore herself from the crowd and rushed to me. 

“Forgive her, she has a bad case of iba– malaria that has affected her brain. She is no rainmaker.” 

“She is the daughter of Uzoka, the rainmaker before her,” someone shouted. “Chukwuokike has chosen her, the power flows through her.”

“Interesting,” the official noted, stroking his jaw. “Take her to the car.”

It was heart-wrenching hearing my mother’s cries as she had to be restrained by the soldiers that accompanied the officials. 

I was transported in a Black Maria so I couldn’t see much till we got to Lagos. It was already getting dark when I got out of the truck. The building I was pushed towards was white and imposing with soldiers littered in different parts of the compound. The title read, 

THE NATIONAL METEOROLOGICAL CENTRE, LAGOS. 

I was led to the office of the Director General, a burly man who held a big brown cigar stick and drank from a tiny glass of wine on his table. 

“Hello, little girl.” He smiled, revealing yellow tobacco-stained teeth with uneven edges. 

“I am Ojiugo, the 20th daughter of Uzoka, first of her kind, and the last rainmaker.”

He opened his mouth wide and laughed, a throaty laugh of one amused by little things, taken aback by my boldness. He stood up from his seat, leaned forward, and gave me a close look. 

“I know exactly who you are and what you are. You will end the drought and once the president knows, he will give me a ministerial position.” 

“I will not help you; the ways of the gods are not the ways of man. My powers are to help humanity and I haven’t completely mastered them.” 

A scowl enveloped his face like a dark cloud for a minute and quickly disappeared as he tried to convince me to do what he wanted. 

“We have a machine, the Rain Amplifier that can make your powers have a huge impact nationwide. Think of the lives you will save. How many children are thirsty?” 

The words of Anyanwu rang in my ears—ogha mmiri is a sacred art known to a few with immense power that has not been fully understood. Do not use it with any other craft or technology to avoid dire consequences.

I repeated this to him firmly and he realised I wouldn’t cooperate. I wasn’t going to sell out my people for his gratification.  

“If you do not give me what I want, I will put you in a cage like a rat and poke needles inside you, little girl, I am not joking.” 

My response was simple. “I wish you well.”

•••

Since that conversation, I was locked in a dirty cell, watching rats and cockroaches swim over each other. All I had to eat was watery milk and the parts my stomach could not hold down joined me on the cell floor. 

Most of my energy was gone by the fifth day, and I could barely keep my eyes open. Without warning, the door swung open and I was dragged out – someone had come to see me. I was shocked to see my mother when I got to the Director General’s office. She had aged so quickly, her head was bare and I could make out streaks of grey hair I hadn’t noticed before. I was restrained before I could rush to meet her. She was so close, yet so distant. 

“Wow, what a lovely reunion,” the Director General noted, with a mischievous smirk. “Are you ready to do what I asked?”

I looked at my mother, back to him, unsure of what he had in store for her. My mother shook her head again, urging me to refuse his demands. The soldier beside her cocked his gun and pointed it at her.

“No! I will do what you asked but I will need some leaves.”

They led me away in the truck to a mountain top where the machine was situated, facing the skies. 

I held the stick, barely containing my anger as I watched them push my mother with the nozzle of a gun pointed at her head. I reached the mountain top and walked into the Rain Amplifier they had constructed. It was a large machine, built like a pod I could stand in. Different wires were attached to my hands and head, allowing me limited mobility. They felt like a weight, this was nothing like making rain in the village sand. This was sinister. Wrong.  

I stood inside, checked the leaves they brought, and reached to the skies for Chukwuokike to give me the strength of my ancestors. Then I put them down and crushed them before setting them on fire. As I crushed them, tears rolled down my face and touched the leaves. The Director General turned on a knob on the machine and rotated it from the lowest slowly, then ascended, watching me closely. 

I had never felt so much pain in my life. My head felt like it had increased ten times in size and my heart threatened to jump out of my chest. I wanted the pain to stop but I didn’t know how. I soaked it in till it overwhelmed my body before I pounded my stick on the ground in anger and was carried by Ikuku back to that landscape where I saw a figure in the distance walking towards me. As he drew closer, I noticed it was my father with a smile. I rushed to and embraced him closely, tears streaming from my eyes. 

“I am so proud of you, my child.” He glowed with the ambience of the spirits and took my hand to the mountain top where I saw some other men. They smiled and bowed before me. 

“They are your ancestors,” my father said. “Pa Uzondu, Pa Amechi, Pa Emereuwa.” He pointed to each one and with their hands on their chests, they made a deep reverent bow. 

“You don’t have much time before the spirit connection is lost. You must hold hands with us and channel our powers. Doing this alone might kill you. We must teach them not to mess with the ogha mmiri.”

I nodded through my tears and held his hand firmly. Others held their hands too and the Nsibidi markings on their body began to glow. Like a current, it passed from generation to generation till it got to me and my glow was almost too much to take in. It happened quickly– I was swept away from them and back to the Rain Amplifier, where dark clouds slowly gathered and a strong breeze blew. My father’s grip on my hand tightened and I could feel the power surge. The winds became violent as grey hung over the country —trees were being snapped into two, zinc roofs were blown from houses, the first thunderstorm shook the national grid and there was a blackout, it was like an enactment of Doomsday. I could see, through the eyes of my ancestors as Bayelsa became Noah’s Ark floating on flood waters. It didn’t start with a drizzle or a drop; the heavens cried and emptied their tears on the earth. It poured and I would not let it stop.  

 I heard a voice calling to me in the distance but ignored it, holding the stick tightly as the powers overwhelmed me. Then, I heard Mama’s voice.

“Ojiugo nwam, biko ezigbo nwam calm down.  Iwe gi di oku dajuo”

my beautiful daughter, please calm down, let your anger subside

I felt my frustration abate as I returned to the world, conscious of other voices too.

“She is stabilising, just keep talking to her.”

My mother’s voice came again. “Ojiugo nwam,” she called, her voice soft and firm. 

The glow on my tattoos reduced before I fell to the ground, drained of my energy. She was the first face I saw when I woke up. 

“Mama,” I called out in a weak voice. 

“Nne mara mma, thank the gods you are back. You have been in a coma for three days.”

“How? What happened?” My throat was dry and I was so thirsty.

“My powerful daughter, you made it rain for three days. The whole country is submerged in your fury.” She smiled. 

“Will I be fine?”

“You will, everything will heal at last.” 

We looked outside the window just in time to catch the sun peeking out in the sky.