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Dead Men’s Path
(

1

953) by

Chinua Achebe

(1930 – 2013)

http://www.sabanciuniv.edu/HaberlerDuyurular/Documents/F_Courses_/2012/Dead_Mens_Path

Michael Obi’s hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was appointed headmaster

of Ndume Central School in January 1949. It had always been an unprogressive school, so the Mission

decided to send a young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to put them into practice. He had a sound secondary school education which designated him a “pivotal teacher” in the official records and set him apart from the other headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the

narrow views of these older and often less educated ones.

“We shall make a good job of it, shan’t we?” he asked his young wife when they first heard the joyful news of his promotion.

“We shall do our best,” she replied. “We shall have such beautiful gardens and everything will be just modern and delightful . . . “

In their two years of married life she had become completely infected by his passion for “modern

methods” and his denigration of “these old and superannuated people in the teaching field who would be better employed as traders in the Onitsha market.”

She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster, the queen of the school.

The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set the fashion in everything . . . Then, suddenly, it occurred to her that there might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear, she asked her husband, looking anxiously at him.

“All our colleagues are young and unmarried,” he said with enthusiasm which for once she did not share. “Which is a good thing,” he continued.

“Why?”

“Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school. Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes she became skeptical about the new school; but it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal misfor-tune could not blind her to her husband’s happy prospects. She looked at him as he sat folded up in a chair. He was stoopshouldered and looked frail. But he sometimes surprised people with sudden bursts of physical energy. In his present posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind

his deepset eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was only twentysix, but looked thirty or more. On the whole, he was not unhandsome.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mike,” said Nancy after a while, imitating the woman’s magazine she read.

“I was thinking what a grand opportunity we’ve got at last to show these

people how a school should be run.”

Ndume School was backward in every sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his whole life into the work, and his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard of teaching was insisted upon, and the school com-pound was to be turned into a place of beauty. Nancy’s dream gardens came to life with the coming of the rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges in brilliant red and yellow marked out the carefully tended school compound from the rank neighborhood bushes.

One evening as Obi was admiring his work he was scandalized to see an old woman from the village hobble right across the compound, through a marigold flowerbed and the hedges. On going up there he found faint signs of an almost disused path from the village across the school compound to the bush on

on the other side.

“It amazes me,” said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years in the school, “that you people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath. It is simply incredible.” He shook his head.

“The path,” said the teacher apologetically, “appears to be very important to them. Although it is hardly used, it connects the village shrine with their place of burial.”

“And what has that got to do with the school?” asked the headmaster.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied the other with a shrug of the shoulders.

“But I remember there was a big row some time ago when we attempted to close it.”

“That was some time ago. But it will not be used now,” said Obi as he walked away. “What will the Government Education Officer think of this when he comes to inspect the school next week? The villagers might, for all I know, decide to use the schoolroom for a pagan ritual during the inspection.”

Heavy sticks were planted closely across the path at the two places where it entered and left the school premises. These were further strengthened with barbed wire.

Three days later the village priest of Ani called on the headmaster. He was an old man and walked with a slight stoop. He carried a stout walking stick which he usually tapped on the floor, by way of emphasis, each time he made a new point in his argument.

“I have heard,” he said after the usual exchange of cordialities, “that our ancestral footpath has recently been closed . . . “

“Yes,” replied Mr. Obi. “We cannot allow people to make a highway of our school compound.”

“Look here, my son,” said the priest bringing down his walking stick, “this path was here before you were born and before your father was born. The whole life of this village depends on it. Our dead relatives depart by it and our ancestors visit us by it. But most important, it is the path of children coming in to be born…”

Mr. Obi listened with a satisfied smile on his face.

“The whole purpose of our school,” he said finally, “is to eradicate just such beliefs as that. Dead men do not require footpaths. The whole idea is just fantastic. Our duty is to teach your children to laugh at such ideas.”

“What you say may be true,” replied the priest, “but we follow the practices of our fathers. If you reopen the path we shall have nothing to quarrel about. What I always say is: let the hawk perch and let the eagle perch.” He rose to go.

“I am sorry,” said the young headmaster. “But the school compound cannot be a thoroughfare. It is against our regulations. I would suggest your constructing another path, skirting our premises. We can even get our boys to help in building it. I don’t suppose the ancestors will find the little detour too

burdensome.”

“I have no more words to say,” said the old priest, already outside.

Two days later a young woman in the village died in childbed. A diviner was immediately consulted and he prescribed heavy sacrifices to propitiate ancestors insulted by the fence.

Obi woke up next morning among the ruins of his work. The beautiful hedges were torn up not just near the path but right round the school, the flowers trampled to death and one of the school buildings pulled down . . .

That day, the white Supervisor came to inspect the school and wrote a nasty report on the state of the premises but more seriously about the “tribal war situation developing between the school and the village, arising in part from the misguided zeal of the new headmaster.”

■ AUTHOR’S PERSPECTIVE

Chinua Achebe

Modern Africa as the Crossroads of Culture 1980

I have always been fond of stories and intrigued by language.—first Igbo, spoken with such eloquence by the old men of the village, and later English, which I began to learn at about the age of eight. I don’t know for certain, but I have probably spoken more words in Igbo than English but I have definitely written more words in English than Igbo. Which I think makes me perfectly bilingual. Some people have suggested that I should be better off writing in Igbo. Sometimes they seek to drive the point home by asking me in which language I dream. When I reply that I dream in both languages they seem not to believe it. More recently I have heard an even more potent and metaphysical version of the question: In what language do you have an orgasm? That should settle the matter if I knew.

We lived at the crossroads of cultures. We still do today; but when I was a boy one could see and sense the peculiar quality and atmosphere of it more clearly. I am not talking about all that rubbish we hear of the spiritual void

and mental stresses that Africans are supposed to have, or the evil forces and irrational passions prowling through Africa’s heart of darkness. We know the racist mystique behind a lot of that stuff and should merely point out that

those who prefer to see Africa in those lurid terms have not themselves demonstrated any clear superiority in sanity or more competence in coping with life.

But still the crossroads does have a certain dangerous potency; dangerous because a man might perish there wrestling with multipleheaded spirits, but also he might be lucky and return to his people with the boon of prophetic vision.

On one arm of the cross we sang hymns and read the Bible night and day. On the other my father’s brother and his family, blinded by heathenism, offered food to idols. That was how it was supposed to be anyhow. But I knew without knowing why that it was too simple a way to describe what was going on. Those idols and that food had a strange pull on me in spite of my being such a thorough little Christian that often at Sunday services at the height of the grandeur of “Te Deum Laudamus” I would have dreams of a mantle of gold falling on me as the choir of angels drowned our mortal song and the voice of God Himself thundering: This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased. Yet, despite those delusions of divine destiny I was not past taking my little sister to our neighbor’s house when our parents were not looking and partaking of heathen festival meals. I never found their rice and stew to have the flavor of idolatry. I was about ten then. If anyone likes to believe that I was torn by spiritual agonies or stretched on the rack of my ambivalence, he certainly may suit himself. I do not remember any undue distress. What I do remember is a fascination for the ritual and the life on the other arm of the crossroads. And I believe two things were in my favor—that curiosity, and the little distance imposed between me and it by the accident of my birth. The distance becomes not a separation but a bringing together like the necessary backward step which a judicious viewer may take in order to see a canvas steadily and fully.

1

1

Dead Men’s Path

(
1953) by
Chinua Achebe

(
1930

–

2013)

http://www.sabanciuniv.edu/HaberlerDuyurular/Documents/F_Courses_/2012/Dead_Mens_Path

Michael Obi’s hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was

appointed headmaster

of Ndume

Central School in January 1949. It had always

been an unprogressive school,
s
o the Mission

decided to send a

young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He
had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to p
ut them into practice.
He had

a sound
secondary school education which designated him a “pivotal teacher” in the official
records and set him
apart from the other

headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the

narrow vi
ews of these older and often les
s
educated

ones.

“We shall make a good job of it, shan’t we?” he asked his young wife when

they first heard the joyful
news of his promotion.

“We shall do our best,” she replied. “We shall have such beautiful gardens

and ever
ything will be
just
modern and delightful . . . ”

In their two years of

married life she had become completely infected by his passion for “modern

methods” and his denigration of “these old and superannuated people in the

teaching field who

would
be
better

employed as traders in the Onitsha market.”

She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster,

the queen of the
school.

The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set

the fashion in everything . . .
Then,

suddenly, it occurred to her that there

might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear,
she asked her

husband, looking anxiously at him.

“All our colleagues are young and unmarried,” he said with enthusiasm

which for once she did not
share. “Whi
ch is a good thing,” he continued.

“Why?”

“Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school
. Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes
she became skeptical about the

new school
;
but

it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal
misfor
–
tune

could not blind her to her husband’s happy prospects. She looked at him as he

sat folded up in a
chair. He was stoopshouldered

and looked frail. But he

sometimes surprised people with sudden bu
rsts of
physical energy. In his present

posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind

his deepset

eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was

only twentysix,

but looked
thirty or more. On the whole, he was not
unhandsome.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mike,” said Nancy after a while, imitating

the woman’s magazine she read.

“I was thinking what a grand opportunity we’ve got at last to show these

people how a school should be run.”

Ndume School was backward in ever
y sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his

whole life into the
w
ork, and
his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard

of teaching was insisted upon, and the school
com
–
pound was to be

turned into a place of beauty. Nancy’s dream

gardens

came to life with th
e

coming of the
rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges

in brilliant red and yellow marked out the
carefully tended school compound

from the rank neighborhood bushes.

One evening as Obi was admiring his work he was scandalized to see
an

old woman from the village
hobble right across the compound, through a

marigold flowerbed

and the hedges. On going up there he
found faint signs

of an almost disused path from the village across the school compound to the

bush on

on the other side.

“It
amazes me,” said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years

in the school, “that you
people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath.

It is simply incredible.” He shook his head.

1

Dead Men’s Path (1953) by Chinua Achebe (1930 – 2013)

http://www.sabanciuniv.edu/HaberlerDuyurular/Documents/F_Courses_/2012/Dead_Mens_Path

Michael Obi’s hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was appointed headmaster
of Ndume Central School in January 1949. It had always been an unprogressive school, so the Mission
decided to send a young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He
had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to put them into practice. He had a sound
secondary school education which designated him a “pivotal teacher” in the official records and set him
apart from the other headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the
narrow views of these older and often less educated ones.
“We shall make a good job of it, shan’t we?” he asked his young wife when they first heard the joyful
news of his promotion.
“We shall do our best,” she replied. “We shall have such beautiful gardens and everything will be just
modern and delightful . . . ”
In their two years of married life she had become completely infected by his passion for “modern
methods” and his denigration of “these old and superannuated people in the teaching field who would be
better employed as traders in the Onitsha market.”
She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster, the queen of the
school.
The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set the fashion in everything . . .
Then, suddenly, it occurred to her that there might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear,
she asked her husband, looking anxiously at him.
“All our colleagues are young and unmarried,” he said with enthusiasm which for once she did not
share. “Which is a good thing,” he continued.
“Why?”
“Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school. Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes
she became skeptical about the new school; but it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal misfor-
tune could not blind her to her husband’s happy prospects. She looked at him as he sat folded up in a
chair. He was stoopshouldered and looked frail. But he sometimes surprised people with sudden bursts of
physical energy. In his present posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind
his deepset eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was only twentysix, but looked
thirty or more. On the whole, he was not unhandsome.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mike,” said Nancy after a while, imitating the woman’s magazine she read.
“I was thinking what a grand opportunity we’ve got at last to show these
people how a school should be run.”

Ndume School was backward in every sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his whole life into the work, and
his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard of teaching was insisted upon, and the school com-
pound was to be turned into a place of beauty. Nancy’s dream gardens came to life with the coming of the
rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges in brilliant red and yellow marked out the
carefully tended school compound from the rank neighborhood bushes.

One evening as Obi was admiring his work he was scandalized to see an old woman from the village
hobble right across the compound, through a marigold flowerbed and the hedges. On going up there he
found faint signs of an almost disused path from the village across the school compound to the bush on
on the other side.
“It amazes me,” said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years in the school, “that you
people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath. It is simply incredible.” He shook his head.

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