1.

The look on Dimchi’s face made sense when she danced past James. It deepened, this barely contained fury, eyes burning with irritation. She danced deliberately through its compound, forgoing the traditional teases, cradling the cup to her chest, ignoring her betrothed, a match slowly sliding against the box, and still sparking: shock. Everyone but the live band was frozen with it. The beat was still joyous and celebratory when she drank all the palm wine. 

2.

The house had been so excited but even it would have told James if it could: Dimchi doesn’t use me for games. Or maybe not. Selfishly,  it would have waited for the setup for the wedding to finish first so that it could get a taste.  

And what a taste it has been! 

There had been the cases of palm wine and oh those goats were a little slim and some people no longer used chalk - the houses around had told it so - but James was a stickler for tradition and that’s why Dimchi liked him.

There were feet all over its compound and canopies dug pleasantly into the soil tingling just at the edges of its feel. All was as it imagined. As it had seen from its neighbours of years past, the daughters returning so they could marry their beloved in their fathers’ homes.

If only it could have warned James.

3.

Then everyone gathered in the kitchen. Dimchi had refused to talk or react until she could be corralled in privacy by her and James’ parents. No one had planned to leave him outside but Dimchi’s brother cornered him. There was not much talking over there, just questioning glares so the house sauntered to the kitchen. It knew what the problem was but watched slightly amused as Dimchi worked herself up to a proper fury and yelled

“How dare that man sell my house!”

4.

The house was hers. Improbably. If tradition had its way it would have been her brothers and if there were no brothers, an uncle could lay claim to it. But her father had decided to will the house to her even before his passing. Everything else was going to her brother.

But the house was hers.

5.

It came awake when its foundations were laid. The mud gave it shape and it rose from the ground, gently and slowly, the conversations guiding it to life. The man who owned it had just gotten married. His age grade was a season after his wife’s - she was born in the drought - and he during the torrent after. 

The men born during the torrent were tying the thatch and straw of its roof when they told a story, sharing the lines amongst themselves. It was about the house. No, all houses. The hands shaping it were giving of themselves and their lives and the soil honors it. It gives the life back, protects the hearth and those that love it.

The house wouldn’t exist without them, wouldn't know, wouldn't feel. So when it was declared over and told to be good and caring, and bring the family boy-children it said yes very eagerly. 

6.

James liked Dimchi and Dimchi liked James so the house liked James. But he had three problems.

The second problem was that James was in debt. The third was that it was not his fault - the price of cement had just skyrocketed at exactly the wrong time. His number one problem, however, was the hunger with which his eyes drank at the walls of the house every time he walked into it. The house should have squirmed. Rejected him. But the hunger was only aimed at it. Dimchi got smiles. So it waited out its confusion.

Then one day, a signpost pounded in and dug in at its tendrils. An itchy poster was plastered on its sides. The neighbours strolled by and shook their heads. The house didn’t know what any of this language meant.

Four days later, people it had never seen and would never see again trooped in, peered at its roof and touched hesitantly at its walls, muttering to one another about how good it looked for its time. Then they sat in a circle as James intoned about the generations past and the ‘communal building practices of the Igbos’ and the people wrote down his words and nodded with intensity. The house waited for everyone to leave. Then it waited some more for the dark of night to settle in. Then laughed and laughed and laughed.

7. 

The wedding wasn’t going to continue. Humans didn’t like lies. If James were to walk in again, he would fall and be lucky to get up. Houses dealt in absolutes. 

When the canopies were packed away, and the nosy people chased out, the families appeased and carted off with apologies, Dimchi swept it. The sticks of the palm fronds tickled its curves and edges. She was crying. 

Gently, it sang to her. The wind was cooperative. Somewhat. Dimchi hummed in harmony as if she knew the song. She danced in its compound, feet kicking up dust that returned to it. She spun and crooned to the leaves of its trees, laughed at the droop of its roof under the weight of nests, summoned music from somewhere and pranced into a heave at its door, stopping to cling to it, heavy breaths that turned to sobs. 

She fell to her knees. Hugged the smooth arc of the wall. The wind played with her hair on its behalf. 

Genuinely, it would have warned James.