In this excerpt from Act 5, Scene 2 of “Ojirami: The Weeping River,” Eshioza weeps at the grave of his late wife, Ewatomi, tormented by his son Ekpen’s desecration of the sacred river and the wrath it has unleashed upon his household.
Characters / References
Eshioza – father and widower, now remarried, burdened with guilt and speaking at the grave of his late wife.
Ewatomi – Eshioza’s first wife, deceased, whose memory dominates his plea for forgiveness.
Khuyeni – Eshioza’s current wife.
Ojirami – a sacred river and goddess in Edo tradition.
Ekpen – Eshioza’s son, a UK returnee whose prideful desecration of the river sets tragic events in motion, compelling his father to seek atonement for his sins (though Ekpen does not appear in this scene.
(Dim lighting. The stage is cloaked in silence, save for the distant hum of crickets. A soft, eerie wind rustles through the trees.
Eshioza emerges from the shadows. He is dressed only in a black wrapper knotted at the waist, with a rough sack slung over one shoulder. His steps are slow, unsteady—his body heavy with fatigue. In one trembling hand, he carries a flickering lantern; in the other, a covered calabash.
As he nears a lonely mound of earth, his legs weaken. He drops to his knees, setting the lantern and calabash down beside him. His shoulders begin to shake, and with a heavy heart, he starts to weep.)
Only weeks after Ojirami took you—perhaps for my sins—Khuyeni came to me with swollen feet and a belly full of threats.
Eshioza: (Weeping and sniffling) My beautiful, peaceful Ewatomi… I have wronged you gravely.
I wronged you the day I let my patience slip, simply because you were heavy with child and could no longer fulfil all your wifely duties—especially in our bedroom. I wronged you the moment I failed to control these wretched eyes in my sockets, when they fixated on the backside of Khuyeni. I wronged you the night I lost myself between her thighs in the dark corners of Igboro, while you groaned in pain, bringing our child into the world—alone.
Oh, the agony you must have felt. The anguish in your soul when you woke to find my side of the bed empty. What excuse could I have had for leaving you at such a moment? What reason? Farmers don’t farm at night… so what excuse?
I wronged you when I failed to mourn you. I wanted to—but my guilt pinned me to the ground, made me a prisoner of my own shame. The entire village wept for you, Ewatomi. Everyone agreed you were a goddess who walked among mortals. You were like the waters of Ojirami—gentle and nourishing, yet strong enough to carve through stone. The way they mourned you… oh, how it filled me with jealousy—and guilt.
Only weeks after Ojirami took you—perhaps for my sins—Khuyeni came to me with swollen feet and a belly full of threats. She carried my child, she said. If I did not marry her, she would disgrace me before the entire village. I feared shame more than I feared the gods. I was too much of a coward to tell the truth. I took her as my wife, but in truth, she was my punishment.
The forbidden fruit I ate that night became my judgement. A few stolen moments of pleasure sealed my fate for a lifetime. If the village had known what I did—if they had known why you laboured alone, why you died alone—they would have stoned me to death, or worse, thrown me into the waters of Ojirami to be devoured by the fishes.
But I feared dying. I was grateful to be the one left alive. And yet… sometimes even the dead must mourn the living. The death I feared all those years ago—I have been dying every single day since you left.
(He grips the mound of earth, as if trying to hold on to her spirit.)
I wronged you even in your passing.
Khuyeni refused to let you be buried in our compound—she did not want a reminder of her own sins. You had every right to own your place in the family, to have your spirit rest among the ancestors, but I was too weak to challenge her. I let her push me like a leaf in the wind. So, I brought you here… to the middle of nowhere, where even I would not have to face the foolishness of my youth.
He lets out a deep, guttural sob, shaking his head.)
And then… I wronged you again. I let Khuyeni turn our daughter, Oyinamen, into a maid in her own home. She made the elder serve the younger. And you watched… oh, I know you watched, giving me enough rope to hang myself with.
Who says the dead cannot speak? Oh, but they do! Sometimes, the dead speak even louder than the living. You, Ewatomi, have spoken to me too many times. I turned a deaf ear. But I hear you now. I see it all clearly now.
The backside I once lusted after—I no longer see. It’s buried beneath the weight of her cold hate. The only thing prominent now is her mouth. Oh, Khuyeni’s mouth! At first, I stayed silent—after all, what kind of man trades words with a woman? So, I buried myself in work and let her do as she pleased… until she turned one child into a servant, and the other, a monster.
