Children’s Easel :: The Child Who Never Went Out

Short Story :: Ifeoma Onyefulu

There was once a man called Obinna and his wife Ngozi, who didn’t have any children. They were miserable because they had no one to hug, to tell stories to, or even to share food with. They sat in their silent house and stared into space. They had a big house, and without a child, it looked and felt abandoned. There
was dust everywhere and cobwebs as thick as strings. Eventually they went to see a doctor, and then more doctors. But none of them could find anything wrong, “Be patient,” they said. Then Obinna and Ngozi went back to their cold, miserable house, feeling upset and angry- after all they’d been patient for a long
time!


One day a neighbour suggested that Ngozi should visit a traditional healer. He was a short man with a head like a coconut, pointy at the top. He handed her some herbs. “When you get home,” he said, “boil these leaves and drink them.” Ngozi wasted no time at all. She snatched the herbs and ran all the way back to her house. Then she placed the herbs in a pot full of cold water and boiled them. Oh, how they stank! They smelt worse than five rotten eggs! But Ngozi was brave – she drank the whole lot
in one gulp.


Several months went by, and nothing happened. Ngozi went to see another healer, and then another, until she’d seen twenty. Some gave her bitter herbs to drink, while others gave her herbs to bathe in. No matter how they tasted or smelled, Ngozi took them all. And still she had no children.

But she never gave up wishing that one day her dreams would come true. And one day they did but in a most surprising way… One night, feeling sad, Ngozi sat in front of her house and began to sob. All the neighbours heard her, but they were too scared to come out and comfort her because it was pitch black outside. Even the moon and stars stayed away that night. Worse still, it was past midnight, when spirits and ghosts roam about. Maybe someone should have told Ngozi to keep quiet, because a few minutes later, strange things began to happen. First the wind began to blow. It shook the leaves on the trees and scattered those on the ground. One leaf blew into Ngozi’s face, making her gasp for air. She stopped crying at once. Then everything went quiet and the wind dropped.


And now Ngozi heard footsteps approaching. She peered into the darkness, “Who’s there?” she said
shakily. Whoever it was remained silent.

“Who’s there?” Ngozi asked again, terrified.

At last, a voice as sweet as honey replied, “I am the spirit of your ancestors.”

“Oh, Mama,” said Ngozi in relief, thinking it was the voice of her dead mother.

“Thank you for coming. You heard me crying and you’ve come to help me.” Smiling now, Ngozi took a few steps forward, but the voice said sharply, “Stop, you mustn’t come any further!” Ngozi stood still.

“I heard you crying,” the voice said gently, “and I came to help you. You’ll soon have a child, trust me.”
Ngozi began to dance with joy. “I’m going to have a child. I’m going to be a mother!” she sang to herself.
The voice interrupted her. “Tomorrow morning I want you to go to the market and buy the finest palm oil you can find. Wait until midnight, and then pour the oil on the ground in front of your house.

When you wake up in the morning you’ll find a child standing on your veranda. But you must never, never let this child out in the sun. Remember, oil melts in the heat.”
And the unknown spirit faded away.




The next morning Ngozi leapt out of bed and rushed to the market to buy palm oil. She bought the very best oil she could find. She waited till midnight, as she’d been told, then she poured the palm oil on the ground, right in front of her. At daybreak Ngozi ran outside. There, standing on the veranda,
was a beautiful child with her arms outstretched, wanting to be picked up.
The oil had turned into a little girl.

“What a beautiful, beautiful child you are!” said Ngozi, sweeping the child into her arms. How could anything made of oil be so perfect?

She held the child for what seemed like forever before letting go. Then curiousity got the better of her. She took the girl’s hand and examined it closely. She wanted to know if anyone would be able to tell that her child was made of oil. She even sniffed her arm, but amazingly the child looked and smelt like any normal four-year-old. No one would have guessed she was made out of palm oil.

“You’re truly beautiful!” Ngozi said again, and she took the child inside to show her to her husband, who was astonished and delighted.

The little girl had such lovely skin! It was as smooth as a pebble and as rich as palm oil – a deep orangey-red colour. Obinna and Ngozi named her Apunanwụ (Never go out in the sun), remind themselves that this little could never go outside, especially when it was sunny.

Apunanwụ’s parents loved her dearly. They gave her lots of toys to play with. She had enough to fill a shop! She even had her own playground. And why not, since she had to spend her life indoors? Her father built the playground in the middle of their sitting room. He knocked down a few walls, took out the chairs and tables, and replace with a slide, a swing, a climbing frame and a sand pit. Apunanwụ played there often.
She even had her own indoor garden. As she didn’t to school like other children, she had plenty of time to explore all the different plants in her garden. She could pick as many flowers as she liked.

If she ever grew bored playing in the playground or in the garden, she’d go to her maze. Her father had built her a marvellous maze in one of the spare rooms, with lots of tunnels, all made out of mud bricks. Apunanwụ spent ages trying to work out how to find her way through it. And she also spent time doing pottery, carving, drawing and painting. Apunanwụ was happy for a while, but more and more she longed to go outside. One day she went to her mother and father and said,
“Mama, please may I go outside and play? Please Mama!”

Her mother came and sat next to her. Then she said very gently, “My child, I cannot let you go outside.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because you’re a special child,” Ngozi said, hoping that would be the end of the matter.

But Apunanwụ persisted. “Why am I a special child, Mama?”

Her mother’s stomach itself into a knot. She was scared to tell her daughter the truth. At last she said again, “You must never go outside, do you hear me? Never!”

Tears rolled down Apunanwụ’s face, and she clung to her mother. She asked again, “Why can’t I go outside? All the other children go outside except me. Why?”

Her mother took a deep breath, “My child,” she said, “you’re special because you’re made from palm oil. And if you ever go outside, you will melt and we won’t have you anymore.”

Apunanwụ took a step back: she knew what palm oil was, she’d seen her mother cook with it many times, and she’d eaten it in her food. In fact, her favourite meal was yam dipped in palm oil with a little salt and pepper. She stared at her hands and legs to see if they were different from her mother’s. And indeed they were! While her mother’s skin tone was dark, hers was the colour of palm oil: a beautiful deep red mixed with dark orange.

Apunanwụ sobbed like a lost child. And her mother comforted her, hugging her tightly and whispering over and over again that she loved her. Finally, she promised she would never leave Apunanwụ on her own.

For several years Ngozi kept her promise and stayed with Apunanwụ every day. However the time came, when the girl was older, that her mother had to go back to work to help her husband on their farm. The first time both parents went out to work, it was for just a couple of hours, and Apunanwụ was quite happy. The second time, they spent three hours at the farm, and still Apunanwụ didn’t mind.

But the third time, Obinna and Ngozi spent a long time at the farm, and the poor girl started to feel very lonely. After five hours she went to sit by the window so that she would see her parents returning.
She’d only been there for a couple of minutes when she noticed two children playing quite close to her house. Apunanwụ watched as the children did skipping, cartwheels and jumping. She could tell they were
having fun because they were laughing. How she wished she could play with them! At that moment, one of the children saw her and came over to talk to her.

Apunanwụ opened the window.

“You can come and play with us if you like,” the girl said. But Apunanwụ remembered that her mother had warned her never to outside. She thanked the girl, but said she would not come out. The she closed the window and went to play by herself. Another hour passed and still her parents hadn’t come back.
Apunanwụ went back to the window. The children were still playing, and again she watched them longingly.

Soon, the same child asked once more if she’d like to join them. Apunanwụ hesitated, but this time she yes. Surely it would be all right, she thought, if she played with the children for a few minutes. She opened the door and stepped outside for the first time in her life! A sweet breeze blew gently on her face, and it felt wonderful. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud.

Apunanwụ played happily with the children. She began to enjoy herself so much, she didn’t notice that the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and was now blazing down. After a few more minutes her new friends said they were going home. It was getting too hot to play. But Apunanwụ was enjoying herself too
much to stop. She carried on playing by herself, out in the sunshine. It grew hotter and hotter, and finally she decided to go back indoors. But when she tried to walk, she couldn’t move. Her legs were like chewing
gum, stuck firmly to the ground. The more she tried to lift one leg off the ground, the more it stuck. She bent down to see what the trouble was, and discovered the leg had stretched so much it was now longer than the other one. So she tried lifting the other leg off the ground, but it was stretched like chewing gum.
She was melting! Apunanwụ looked down at her hands and saw that they had changed shape. They were getting longer and longer, until all her fingers merged into two thin stumps. Puzzled, she stared at them, and then she remembered her mother’s warning.

Poor Apunanwụ! Her face began to drip with oil, and gradually her whole body melted. Soon all that was left was a pool of palm oil. When her parents came home they called her name and searched everywhere for her. But Apunanwụ was nowhere to be found. At last, they saw the pool of palm oil in front of their house and at once they realised what had happened.

Ngozi began to cry and cry. She sat down by the pool of oil, and then she sang this lament for her daughter.

O…o…co
Co…co…o…o
Ude mmili mu ezuwe! (My oil has melted)
Akwuli wali (What a loss)
Ude mmili mu ezuwe!

Ngozi sang for a long time, calling for her lost child. But Apunanwụ had gone back to the spirit world, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

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