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Obierika must pass for the local intellectual, the Socrates of Umuofia, so to speak, and God (or the
gods!) help him in his solitary endeavour. So much, in any case, for the much vaunted ‘philosophy of
great depth (to say nothing of beauty), but which only underscores the question that is raised by Achebe’
s ‘alternative (secular) explications’ for the success of Christianity: were the Igbos – and, by extension,
Africans – ignorant heathens or weren’t they? This may or may not be a false dichotomy, but it is the
one which the author himself poses. It is not enough, after all, to simply assert the dignity of pre-colonial
African society on the spurious grounds that it had its own elaborate pantheon of gods if these gods are
then shown to be merely the objects of a degraded fetishism so easily unmasked for what they were by
the very first European who challenged them. In short, do the gods have power or don’t they; and, if
they don’t, where then does the dignity of the society reside?
*
The drums and the dancing began and reached fever-hear. Darkness was around the corner, and the
burial was near. Guns fired the last salute and the cannon rent the sky. And then from the centre of the
delirious fury came a cry of agony and shouts of horror. It was as if a spell had been cast.
This is not taken from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, a novella which Achebe himself singles out
for its supposedly racist treatment of the Dark Continent (The Horror! The Horror!), even though the
tone of the passage is remarkably similar to the one which he himself quotes from Conrad’s book in
support of his argument: ‘But suddenly…there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs,
a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping…’
The delirious fury of stamping feet is the backdrop against which the gods enact their will on the
community in Things Fall Apart, from which the above passage is taken; specifically, the scene in which
Okonkwo inadvertently kills a fellow clansman, hence the presence of a dark god, in this case Ani, the
deity ‘who played a greater part in the life of the people than any other…’ But this same earth goddess,
who is able to effect Okonkwo’s banishment, is yet unable to save the community – and herself – from
an unarmed stranger peddling an alternative (not to say fantastic: ‘And on the third day He rose again’)
religion.
But at least Achebe keeps the goddess firmly out of sight. Her presence is only inferred, never
conclusively demonstrated. This is certainly a weakness in the author’s avowed intention, but the
resultant ambiguity allows a variety of interpretations on the part of those critics, mostly foreign, who
were only too eager to pounce on this welcome evidence that Africans were also capable of writing
literature. What else is one to say about the countless critical articles which glibly inform us that Achebe’
s novel is a ‘landmark…in English fiction,’ ‘an epic achievement,’ a ‘classic book,’ never mind the even
more fulsome praise for Arrow of God, a novel in which the nature of the gods’ power is examined more
directly and which, in proportion, fails more completely?
Power, in fact, is the dominant theme of Arrow of God (1964; rev. ed. 1974). The central character,
Ezeulu, is the chief priest of the god Ulu, whose will he is responsible for interpreting. As the novel
opens, we find him already questioning the precise nature of his power: on the one hand, he alone
names the day when the annual yam harvest can take place; on the other, he is only required to eat one
of the thirteen sacred yams from the previous year’s harvest at the sighting of each new moon,
whereupon the new harvest can take place. In other words, he is only ‘a watchman’: ‘His power was no
more than the power of a child over a goat that was said to be his…’
The circumscribed nature of his power irks him, a fact which is thrown into greater relief when he
discovers that his power in the secular life of the community is non-existent. It happened that a few years
earlier Umuaro had gone to war with its neighbour, Okperi, over a land dispute. At the time, Ezeulu
spoke out against the war and in the process invoked the authority of Ulu: ‘Some people are still talking
about carrying war to Okperi. Do they think that Ulu will fight in blame?’ But his clansmen do not heed his
advice; rather, it is Nwaka, an elder in his own right and a friend of Ezeulu’s great rival, the priest of
Idemili, who carries the day by calling into question Ezeulu’s authority in the matter:
‘My father did not tell me that before Umuaro went to war it took leave from the priest of Ulu… The man
who carries a deity is not a king. He is there to perform the god’s ritual and to carry sacrifice to him. But I’
ve been watching this Ezeulu for many years. He is a man of ambition; he wants to be king, priest,
diviner, all.’
Nwaka goes even further and uses the opportunity to question the basis of Ulu’s power:
‘Let us not listen to anyone trying to frighten us with the name of Ulu, If a man says yes his chi [personal
god] also says yes. And we have all heard how the people of Aninta dealt with their deity when he failed
them… Did they not carry him to the boundary between them and their neighbours and set fire on him?’
The reference to the fate of Aninta – the destruction of a god that had outlived its usefulness – is, of
course, a direct warning that the same fate might very well befall Ulu. And if that were to happen then
whatever power Ezeulu does possess will cease altogether.
What, then, is the exact nature of Ezeulu’s power, as distinct from the power of his priest? A clue is
given in the genesis of the god. Ulu came into being ‘in the distant past’ to protect the six villages
collectively known as Umuaro from ‘the hired soldiers of Abam’ who ‘used to strike in the dead of night,
set fire to houses and carry men, women and children into slavery’. So the villagers came together,
‘hired a strong team of medicine-men’ and made a deity which they called Ulu. Such was their success
that they were never again troubled by the slave raiders. The power of Ulu, then, was manifested in his
ability to protect the community from external danger. But this was before the Europeans came, before
even the abolition of the Atlantic slave trade a century prior to the action in the novel.
It happens that Captain Winterbottom, the district commissioner, has meanwhile been charged by his
superiors to appoint a warrant chief. This was part of a policy known as indirect rule, first formulated by
Lord Lugard, governor-general of Nigeria from 1912 to 1919, in which the colonial authorities sought to
rule through native chiefs. But Winterbottom, who knows that this conflicts with the republican principles
of the Igbos, is unable to convince his superiors that such a policy is doomed from the beginning. As
with Ezeulu, there are strict limits to his power, made worse in his case by his deep-rooted conviction
that all Africans are incurably mendacious. However, he recalls Ezeulu’s probity during the trial which
ended the war between Umuaro and Okperi. He decides to appoint the chief priest to this delicate
position and summons him to his headquarters for that purpose. Ezeulu, who doesn’t know why he is
being summoned, refuses the call on the grounds that he is not in the habit of obeying anybody’s
orders. Then he calls a meeting of the elders, the people in whom secular authority is vested, and
explains what has happened. As we shall see, there is no good reason why Ezeulu should convene the
meeting, except that it enables the author to advance the plot of the novel. At any rate, it affords the
ever-vocal Nwaka the opportunity of another set speech:
‘But there is one thing which is not clear to me in the summons. Perhaps it is clear to others; if so
someone should explain it to me. Ezeulu has told us that the white man has asked him to go to Okperi.
Now it is not clear to me whether it is wrong for a man to ask his friend to visit him… The white man is
Ezeulu’s friend and has sent for him. What is strange about that?’
Stung to anger, Ezeulu decides to go to Okperi after all; but no sooner does he arrive than he is thrown
into prison for his delay.
In prison, apparently abandoned by his clan, he has a nightmare. There is a meeting of the elders of
Umuaro. He tries to speak but they shout him down on the grounds that Ulu is a dead god:
‘He saved our fathers from the warriors of Abam but he cannot save us from the white man. Let us drive
him away as our neighbours of Aminta drove out and burnt Ogba when he left what he was called to do
and did other things…’
It is then that Ezeulu decides on the course of revenge to punish his people for their temerity. It has not
escaped him that a new moon is due in a few days’ time. As it turns out, he is incarcerated for two new
moons when his subsequent refusal to accept the chieftaincy title which he is offered earns him a further
spell in prison. This does not bother him unduly; on the contrary, it fits in perfectly with his plans.
There are certain elements about his episode which are unsatisfactory, and they are part of the
general problem of the novel as a whole. As we have already seen, it is unclear why Ezeulu calls a
meeting of the elders to tell them of the summons since he really has nothing to say. The urgency of the
action belies the trivial nature of his report; he simply does not know, at this point, what it is that
Winterbottom wants of him. In any case, Nwaka’s charge – that Ezeulu is the white man’s friend – is
entirely justified. Not only did Ezeulu testify against his clan over the war with Okperi, but his own son,
Oduche, was enrolled as a student at the mission school at Winterbottom’s express request. Why, then,
does Ezeulu take offence? And, having taken offence, why does he suddenly decide to obey the
summons? His actions are out of proportion to the events that trigger them, as if the plot had been
deliberately engineered in order that he should find himself in his predicament.
Having decided that his people are against him, and that his power is threatened, power which is
dependent on the continued existence of his god, Ezeulu proceeds to put his plan into motion. By
refusing to eat the sacred yams he will dislocate the natural cycle and condemn the clan to starvation. It
is a momentous decision, of course, and one would like to know what the god himself thinks about it.
However, Ulu’s own feelings on the matter are left ambiguous (deliberately so, we must assume), even
though Ezeulu justifies his decision with reference to the god:
‘Leaders of Umuaro, do not say that I am treating your words with contempt; it is not my wish to do so.
But you cannot say: do what is not done and we shall take the blame. I am the Chief Priest of Ulu and
what I have told you is his will not mine… It could not be my wish to make the smallest man in Umuaro
suffer. But this is not my doing. The gods sometimes use us as a whip.’
But Ezeulu is a liar, a fact which the author has been at considerable pains to establish all along.
This is most dramatically illustrated in the conflicting reasons he proffers for sending Oduche to the
mission school. To his son, he pretends that his decision is purely pragmatic:
‘The world is changing,’ he had told him. ‘I do not like it… I want one of my sons to join these people and
be my eye there. If there is nothing in it you will come back. But if there is something you will bring home
my share… My spirit tells me that those who do not befriend the white man today will be saying had we
known tomorrow.’
Such commendable foresight is less than half the story. In fact, his real reason is more complex, as he
tells his closest friend, Akuebue:
‘If someone came to you and said that Ezeulu sent his son to a strange religion so as to please another
man what would you tell him? I say don’t make me laugh. Shall I tell you why I sent my son? Then listen.
A disease that has never been seen before cannot be cured by everyday herbs. When we want to make
a charm we look for an animal whose blood can match its power; if a chicken cannot do it we look for a
goat or a ram; if that is not sufficient we send for a bull. But sometimes even a bull does not suffice, then
we must look for a human… And our fathers have told us that it may even happen to an unfortunate
generation that they are pushed beyond the end of things, and their back is broken and hung over a
fire. That is what our sages meant when they said that a man who has nowhere else to put his hand for
support puts it on his own knee.’
More...
gods!) help him in his solitary endeavour. So much, in any case, for the much vaunted ‘philosophy of
great depth (to say nothing of beauty), but which only underscores the question that is raised by Achebe’
s ‘alternative (secular) explications’ for the success of Christianity: were the Igbos – and, by extension,
Africans – ignorant heathens or weren’t they? This may or may not be a false dichotomy, but it is the
one which the author himself poses. It is not enough, after all, to simply assert the dignity of pre-colonial
African society on the spurious grounds that it had its own elaborate pantheon of gods if these gods are
then shown to be merely the objects of a degraded fetishism so easily unmasked for what they were by
the very first European who challenged them. In short, do the gods have power or don’t they; and, if
they don’t, where then does the dignity of the society reside?
*
The drums and the dancing began and reached fever-hear. Darkness was around the corner, and the
burial was near. Guns fired the last salute and the cannon rent the sky. And then from the centre of the
delirious fury came a cry of agony and shouts of horror. It was as if a spell had been cast.
This is not taken from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, a novella which Achebe himself singles out
for its supposedly racist treatment of the Dark Continent (The Horror! The Horror!), even though the
tone of the passage is remarkably similar to the one which he himself quotes from Conrad’s book in
support of his argument: ‘But suddenly…there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs,
a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping…’
The delirious fury of stamping feet is the backdrop against which the gods enact their will on the
community in Things Fall Apart, from which the above passage is taken; specifically, the scene in which
Okonkwo inadvertently kills a fellow clansman, hence the presence of a dark god, in this case Ani, the
deity ‘who played a greater part in the life of the people than any other…’ But this same earth goddess,
who is able to effect Okonkwo’s banishment, is yet unable to save the community – and herself – from
an unarmed stranger peddling an alternative (not to say fantastic: ‘And on the third day He rose again’)
religion.
But at least Achebe keeps the goddess firmly out of sight. Her presence is only inferred, never
conclusively demonstrated. This is certainly a weakness in the author’s avowed intention, but the
resultant ambiguity allows a variety of interpretations on the part of those critics, mostly foreign, who
were only too eager to pounce on this welcome evidence that Africans were also capable of writing
literature. What else is one to say about the countless critical articles which glibly inform us that Achebe’
s novel is a ‘landmark…in English fiction,’ ‘an epic achievement,’ a ‘classic book,’ never mind the even
more fulsome praise for Arrow of God, a novel in which the nature of the gods’ power is examined more
directly and which, in proportion, fails more completely?
Power, in fact, is the dominant theme of Arrow of God (1964; rev. ed. 1974). The central character,
Ezeulu, is the chief priest of the god Ulu, whose will he is responsible for interpreting. As the novel
opens, we find him already questioning the precise nature of his power: on the one hand, he alone
names the day when the annual yam harvest can take place; on the other, he is only required to eat one
of the thirteen sacred yams from the previous year’s harvest at the sighting of each new moon,
whereupon the new harvest can take place. In other words, he is only ‘a watchman’: ‘His power was no
more than the power of a child over a goat that was said to be his…’
The circumscribed nature of his power irks him, a fact which is thrown into greater relief when he
discovers that his power in the secular life of the community is non-existent. It happened that a few years
earlier Umuaro had gone to war with its neighbour, Okperi, over a land dispute. At the time, Ezeulu
spoke out against the war and in the process invoked the authority of Ulu: ‘Some people are still talking
about carrying war to Okperi. Do they think that Ulu will fight in blame?’ But his clansmen do not heed his
advice; rather, it is Nwaka, an elder in his own right and a friend of Ezeulu’s great rival, the priest of
Idemili, who carries the day by calling into question Ezeulu’s authority in the matter:
‘My father did not tell me that before Umuaro went to war it took leave from the priest of Ulu… The man
who carries a deity is not a king. He is there to perform the god’s ritual and to carry sacrifice to him. But I’
ve been watching this Ezeulu for many years. He is a man of ambition; he wants to be king, priest,
diviner, all.’
Nwaka goes even further and uses the opportunity to question the basis of Ulu’s power:
‘Let us not listen to anyone trying to frighten us with the name of Ulu, If a man says yes his chi [personal
god] also says yes. And we have all heard how the people of Aninta dealt with their deity when he failed
them… Did they not carry him to the boundary between them and their neighbours and set fire on him?’
The reference to the fate of Aninta – the destruction of a god that had outlived its usefulness – is, of
course, a direct warning that the same fate might very well befall Ulu. And if that were to happen then
whatever power Ezeulu does possess will cease altogether.
What, then, is the exact nature of Ezeulu’s power, as distinct from the power of his priest? A clue is
given in the genesis of the god. Ulu came into being ‘in the distant past’ to protect the six villages
collectively known as Umuaro from ‘the hired soldiers of Abam’ who ‘used to strike in the dead of night,
set fire to houses and carry men, women and children into slavery’. So the villagers came together,
‘hired a strong team of medicine-men’ and made a deity which they called Ulu. Such was their success
that they were never again troubled by the slave raiders. The power of Ulu, then, was manifested in his
ability to protect the community from external danger. But this was before the Europeans came, before
even the abolition of the Atlantic slave trade a century prior to the action in the novel.
It happens that Captain Winterbottom, the district commissioner, has meanwhile been charged by his
superiors to appoint a warrant chief. This was part of a policy known as indirect rule, first formulated by
Lord Lugard, governor-general of Nigeria from 1912 to 1919, in which the colonial authorities sought to
rule through native chiefs. But Winterbottom, who knows that this conflicts with the republican principles
of the Igbos, is unable to convince his superiors that such a policy is doomed from the beginning. As
with Ezeulu, there are strict limits to his power, made worse in his case by his deep-rooted conviction
that all Africans are incurably mendacious. However, he recalls Ezeulu’s probity during the trial which
ended the war between Umuaro and Okperi. He decides to appoint the chief priest to this delicate
position and summons him to his headquarters for that purpose. Ezeulu, who doesn’t know why he is
being summoned, refuses the call on the grounds that he is not in the habit of obeying anybody’s
orders. Then he calls a meeting of the elders, the people in whom secular authority is vested, and
explains what has happened. As we shall see, there is no good reason why Ezeulu should convene the
meeting, except that it enables the author to advance the plot of the novel. At any rate, it affords the
ever-vocal Nwaka the opportunity of another set speech:
‘But there is one thing which is not clear to me in the summons. Perhaps it is clear to others; if so
someone should explain it to me. Ezeulu has told us that the white man has asked him to go to Okperi.
Now it is not clear to me whether it is wrong for a man to ask his friend to visit him… The white man is
Ezeulu’s friend and has sent for him. What is strange about that?’
Stung to anger, Ezeulu decides to go to Okperi after all; but no sooner does he arrive than he is thrown
into prison for his delay.
In prison, apparently abandoned by his clan, he has a nightmare. There is a meeting of the elders of
Umuaro. He tries to speak but they shout him down on the grounds that Ulu is a dead god:
‘He saved our fathers from the warriors of Abam but he cannot save us from the white man. Let us drive
him away as our neighbours of Aminta drove out and burnt Ogba when he left what he was called to do
and did other things…’
It is then that Ezeulu decides on the course of revenge to punish his people for their temerity. It has not
escaped him that a new moon is due in a few days’ time. As it turns out, he is incarcerated for two new
moons when his subsequent refusal to accept the chieftaincy title which he is offered earns him a further
spell in prison. This does not bother him unduly; on the contrary, it fits in perfectly with his plans.
There are certain elements about his episode which are unsatisfactory, and they are part of the
general problem of the novel as a whole. As we have already seen, it is unclear why Ezeulu calls a
meeting of the elders to tell them of the summons since he really has nothing to say. The urgency of the
action belies the trivial nature of his report; he simply does not know, at this point, what it is that
Winterbottom wants of him. In any case, Nwaka’s charge – that Ezeulu is the white man’s friend – is
entirely justified. Not only did Ezeulu testify against his clan over the war with Okperi, but his own son,
Oduche, was enrolled as a student at the mission school at Winterbottom’s express request. Why, then,
does Ezeulu take offence? And, having taken offence, why does he suddenly decide to obey the
summons? His actions are out of proportion to the events that trigger them, as if the plot had been
deliberately engineered in order that he should find himself in his predicament.
Having decided that his people are against him, and that his power is threatened, power which is
dependent on the continued existence of his god, Ezeulu proceeds to put his plan into motion. By
refusing to eat the sacred yams he will dislocate the natural cycle and condemn the clan to starvation. It
is a momentous decision, of course, and one would like to know what the god himself thinks about it.
However, Ulu’s own feelings on the matter are left ambiguous (deliberately so, we must assume), even
though Ezeulu justifies his decision with reference to the god:
‘Leaders of Umuaro, do not say that I am treating your words with contempt; it is not my wish to do so.
But you cannot say: do what is not done and we shall take the blame. I am the Chief Priest of Ulu and
what I have told you is his will not mine… It could not be my wish to make the smallest man in Umuaro
suffer. But this is not my doing. The gods sometimes use us as a whip.’
But Ezeulu is a liar, a fact which the author has been at considerable pains to establish all along.
This is most dramatically illustrated in the conflicting reasons he proffers for sending Oduche to the
mission school. To his son, he pretends that his decision is purely pragmatic:
‘The world is changing,’ he had told him. ‘I do not like it… I want one of my sons to join these people and
be my eye there. If there is nothing in it you will come back. But if there is something you will bring home
my share… My spirit tells me that those who do not befriend the white man today will be saying had we
known tomorrow.’
Such commendable foresight is less than half the story. In fact, his real reason is more complex, as he
tells his closest friend, Akuebue:
‘If someone came to you and said that Ezeulu sent his son to a strange religion so as to please another
man what would you tell him? I say don’t make me laugh. Shall I tell you why I sent my son? Then listen.
A disease that has never been seen before cannot be cured by everyday herbs. When we want to make
a charm we look for an animal whose blood can match its power; if a chicken cannot do it we look for a
goat or a ram; if that is not sufficient we send for a bull. But sometimes even a bull does not suffice, then
we must look for a human… And our fathers have told us that it may even happen to an unfortunate
generation that they are pushed beyond the end of things, and their back is broken and hung over a
fire. That is what our sages meant when they said that a man who has nowhere else to put his hand for
support puts it on his own knee.’
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