Agaracha must come back: Reading Cash Onadele’s Liberty of Promises against itself

There is often a difference between what an author sets out explicitly to achieve and the implicit destinations they arrive at. Cash Onadele’s Liberty of Promises pledges to challenge “taboos of humankind selfishness, misconstrued prejudices, mercantile stereotyping, and non-acceptance of Yoruba migrants among their cousins, the Igbo.” It also touches on how humans fare with confidentiality, and its aftermath on relationships. Does Onadele do both?

More? Or has the author climbed some creative trunk, hopped onto branches, leaves, and flown into subtle political themes?

The author builds the framework for his thrusts primarily in Amazu, a town in Arondizuogu, South-East Nigeria, about two decades from the post-civil war period into the mid-1980s. The protagonist, Kuti Sodeke, a Yoruba man, had saved wounded Obiora, an 11-year-old Igbo child soldier and brought him home to his family. Eze Ogo Dimgba, the traditional ruler and father of the boy, rewards the kindness. Thus, Kuti, a successful merchant in Amazu, marries Ijeoma, the ‘sister’ of Obiora. Kuti — generous, kind-hearted, and devoted to serving his community — however, lacks two deep desires. He longs to be named Chief of Ikpa by Eze Ogo, an ambition that falls to betrayal. He also yearns for Ijeoma to become a mother.

At critical moments in his search for fulfilment, his path ‘jams’ the antagonist, Tumi Ibeneme, the bitter Yoruba widow of an Igbo man, who is mad at all her husband’s kinfolks because the now-deceased impregnated her in Ogbomosho, brought her to his people, and “died on” her.

Tumi expects Kuti to understand — but he does not — that in a strange land, birds of a feather ought to roost together; hence, she vows that her daughter, Enitan, must marry him. And to ensure her wishes hit the bull’s eye, she visits Mothers of Earth (Sheire, Sheiregun and Sheika — the supernatural trio that have become conspicuous features of some of Onadele’s works) and deviously locks up the womb of hapless Ijeoma.

Meanwhile, Ijeoma is a close friend of Sidi, the Yoruba wife of Igbo man Chike. Besides being attended in ‘za oza room’ by her virile husband almost every night, Sidi does two other things best: talebearing, and secondly, pulling “her panty out of her crack,” scratching and shaking her buttocks, which she does a disturbing 24 times (Aiye-ko-ooto be careful!) For a while, Kuti keeps getting farther from his wishes because what fast-talking Sidi hears from Ijeoma, she broadcasts to Enitan’s mother.

Armed with privileged information — left, right and centre — Tumi manipulates her daughter to seduce Kuti and break up his marriage; she machinates Maduka, a rogue athlete, to tackle Ijeoma’s emotions and lay her on her back. She also rigs up Obiora’s senses to steal Kuti’s money and delay the latter’s business plans. Soon, Kuti’s tobacco farm mysteriously burns down, his motel is robbed multiple times, and Tumi takes over portions of his oil palm business.

Frustrated by downturns, Kuti contemplates the most convenient posture for putting a suicidal bullet into his head. Ironically, at the same location, Tumi’s equally frustrated daughter is about to take her own life. He rescues her and sets in motion a momentous reversal of his woes. A mysterious Kuti-looking statue with a “ball squeezing the manhood” is retrieved from Tumi’s prayer room and destroyed. Ijeoma becomes pregnant. Maduka and Tumi are exposed for arson, robbery, and conspiracy. Eze Ogo is caught taking bribes. All receive prison sentences. Kuti returns to his Yoruba homeland of Abeokuta with Ijeoma and their twins, Amaka and Nduka, and is happily installed as Jagunmolu, a hereditary chieftaincy title.

Onadele claims he “brewed” Liberty of Promises “against” tribalised selfishness and prejudice. The word “against” suggests a posture of resistance or moral correction. The subtler message he wittingly or unwittingly advances, however, appears different. At a deeper plane of signification, Onadele hints at a quiet dismay with collective existence across ethnic components.

Having distinguished himself with acclaim, the protagonist is clearly qualified to be recognised as a leader in Amazu. Even the chiefs admit he is a “great man” and praise his “contribution to the community.” But as Febechi, Eze Ogo’s estranged brother, warns regarding Kuti’s aspiration, “blood is thicker than water.” Ijeoma’s husband never gets to become a chief. Instead, among his own kindred, he finds acceptance and an acknowledgement of his worth. Notably, this happens with striking ease.
Through the words of Haparuchi — the personification of wisdom — readers hear that the epicentre of the novel’s actions highlights a “complex case of liberty of promises.” While mediating between two couples: Chike and Sidi, and Kuti and Ijeoma, Haparuchi stresses that “…every promise in life is fraught with unfulfilled payoffs… (therefore) learn to live as much as possible free of expectations and promises of others.”

The lesson here is that the wisest approach to life is: avoid depending heavily on what others promise or on expecting them to keep their word. Thus, self-reliance and the management of individuals’ expectations will spare them disappoint-ment. In essence, Onadele advocates for self-sufficiency and wariness about trusting others completely. This is a somewhat cynical but pragmatic view that people are ultimately unreliable with both secrets and commitments.

Self-sufficiency and self-reliance sit on the same row as ‘self-determination’, ‘self-actualisation’, and ‘autonomy’. These are words that have echoed across Nigeria’s socio-political landscape, and rather than subsiding, have grown louder with every passing year: the loudness stemming from perceptions that commitments to federalism have not been honoured.

It is difficult to miss the symbolism of Onadele’s resolution in Liberty of Promises, and even more so when it is rhetorically sealed and delivered as “Agaracha must come back.” There is no proper resting place for the man who, two decades earlier, moved from Abeokuta, except to return to home base. Will there be a sanctuary for the ethnic nationalities converged on Project Nigeria? Is there something Onadele is not saying openly about why his work is set in post-civil war Nigeria, and why, in that timeframe, a Yoruba man who saved the life of a dying Igbo man must return to his own people?

Read against Onadele’s stated intentions, the novel reveals an unexpected ideological tension. While the author explicitly positions Liberty of Promises as a corrective, the text itself—through its resolution, symbolism, and ethical prescriptions—suggests a quiet scepticism about the viability of ethnic coexistence in post-civil war Nigeria. The narrative logic rewards retreat to ethnic origin rather than integration. The implication is subtle but persistent: personal fulfilment and social stability appear more attainable within ethnic homogeneity than in plural communal spaces.

That said, Onadele’s storytelling sometimes favours generous seasoning over restraint (one recalls the repeated use of “panty”, “crack”, “buttocks”). The appearance of the Mothers of Earth in Liberty of Promises, as in some of his other works, begins to draw attention to itself. When it recurs intermittently, it risks losing its effervescence and allows readers to predict a stereotype even before turning the first page. Onadele has proven himself adept at imaginative creation and need not risk what may otherwise read as “anyhow anyhow” recycling of a device whose power lies in its restraint. It is also somewhat surprising that the Mothers’ names are not more effectively translated into Igbo, a choice that could have deepened their cultural resonance.

Onadele’s plot defies prediction. It toys with a form of narrative sadism, withholding conventional suspense and denying the reader the comfort of gripping, high-tension moments. Liberty of Promises is moin-moin wrapped in multiple layers: every page must be peeled back before its rewards can be savoured. Will the man of God Rufus Kasiemobi succeed in a daring love pursuit or be disgraced as a hypocrite? Which—out of three possible men—will eventually win the “perky breasts” of the young lady who slips naked onto the bed of a famed wrestler yet walks away untouched?

The novel is a journey into a fictitious world where readers risk getting pleasantly lost as they meander across vast literary terrains. It packs rich characterisation, an ingenious use of language and devices, and a profusion of symbolism. It also affirms Onadele’s creative mind as scarily deep. The author deserves credit for pulling off a work that attempts so much.

In the end, Liberty of Promises offers readers the delights of two novels: the one Onadele meant to write about overcoming prejudice, and the one his narrative unconsciously tells—about the limits of integration and the pull of ethnic sanctuary. Whether this doubled vision represents a failure of authorial control or an honest reflection of Nigeria’s unresolved contradictions remains an open question. Either way, Onadele has given us a text worth arguing with.

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