Half of a Yellow Sun

by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

  PART TWO

  The Late Sixties

  7

  Ugwu lay on a mat in his mother’s hut, staring at a dead spider squashed on the wall; its body fluids had stained the mud a deeper red. Anulika was measuring out cups of ukwa and the crusty aroma of roasted breadfruit seeds hung thick in the room. She was talking. She had been talking for quite a while, and Ugwu’s head ached. His visit home suddenly seemed much longer than a week, perhaps because of the endless gassy churning in his stomach from eating only fruit and nuts. His mother’s food was unpalatable. The vegetables were overcooked, the cornmeal was too lumpy, the soup too watery, and the yam slices coarse from being boiled without a dollop of butter. He could not wait to get back to Nsukka and finally eat a real meal.

  “I want to have a baby boy first, because it will place my feet firmly in Onyeka’s house,” Anulika said. She walked over to get a bag in the rafters and Ugwu noticed, again, the new suspicious roundness to her body: the breasts that filled her blouse, the buttocks that rolled with each step. Onyeka must have touched her. Ugwu could not bear to think of the man’s ugly body thrusting into his sister’s. It had all happened too fast; there had been talk of suitors the last time he visited, but she had spoken of Onyeka in such an indifferent way that he did not think she would accept his proposal so quickly. Now even their parents were too swift to talk about Onyeka, his good mechanic job in town, his bicycle, his good behavior, as if he were already a member of the family. Nobody ever mentioned his stunted height and the pointed teeth that looked like they belonged to a bush rat.

  “You know, Onunna from Ezeugwu’s compound had a baby girl first, and her husband’s people went to see a dibia to find out why! Of course, Onyeka’s people will not do that to me, they don’t dare, but I want to have a boy first anyway,” Anulika said.

  Ugwu sat up. “I have tired of stories of Onyeka. I noticed something when he came by yesterday. He should bathe more often, he smells like rotten oil beans.”

  “And you, what do you smell like?” Anulika poured the ukwa in the bag and knotted it. “I’ve finished. You better get going before it gets too late.”

  Ugwu went out to the yard. His mother was pounding something in a mortar and his father was stooped near her, sharpening a knife against a stone. The scrape of metal against stone set off tiny sparks that flickered briefly before they disappeared.

  “Did Anulika wrap the ukwa well?” his mother asked.

  “She did.” Ugwu raised the bag to show her.

  “Greet your master and madam,” his mother said. “Thank them for everything they sent us.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He went over and hugged her. “Stay well. Greet Chioke when she returns.”

  His father straightened up and wiped the knife blade on his palm before shaking hands. “Go well, ije oma. We will send word when Onyeka’s people tell us they are ready to bring palm wine. It will be in a few months’ time.”

  “Yes, Father.” Ugwu stood around while his little cousins and siblings, the younger ones naked and the older ones in oversize shirts, said their goodbyes and listed what they wanted him to bring on his next visit. Buy us bread! Buy us meat! Buy us fried fish! Buy us groundnuts!

  Anulika escorted him to the main road. He saw a familiar figure near the grove of ube trees and, although he had not seen her since she went to Kano to learn a trade four years ago, he knew immediately that it was Nnesinachi.

  “Anulika! Ugwu! Is it you?” Nnesinachi’s voice was as husky as he remembered but she was taller now, and her skin was darker from the fierce sun in the North.

  When they hugged, he felt her chest push into his.

  “I would barely have recognized you, the North has changed you so,” he said, wondering if she had really pressed herself against him.

  “I came back yesterday with my cousins.” She was smiling at him. She had never smiled at him so warmly in the past. Her eyebrows had been shaved and penciled in, one thicker than the other. She turned to Anulika. “Anuli, I was on my way to see you. I hear you are getting married!”

  “My sister, it is what I hear too,” Anulika said, and they both laughed.

  “Are you going back to Nsukka?” she asked Ugwu.

  “Yes. But I will come back soon, for Anulika’s wine-carrying.”

  “Go well.” Nnesinachi’s eyes met his briefly, boldly, before she walked on, and he knew he had not imagined it; she really had pressed herself against him when they hugged. He felt a rush of weakness to his legs. He held himself from turning back to look at her, just in case she turned as well, and for a moment he forgot the uncomfortable churning in his stomach.

  “Her eyes must have opened in the North. You can’t marry her, so you had better take what she is offering, before she marries,” Anulika said.

  “You noticed?”

  “How could I not have noticed? Do I look like a sheep?”

  Ugwu narrowed his eyes to look at her. “Has Onyeka touched you?”

  “Of course Onyeka has touched me.”

  Ugwu slowed his pace. He knew she must have slept with Onyeka and yet he did not like her confirming it. When Chinyere, Dr. Okeke’s housegirl, first started to sneak across the hedge to his Boys’ Quarters for hasty thrusts in the dark, he had told Anulika about it during a visit home and they had discussed it. But they had never discussed her; he had always made himself assume that there was nothing to discuss. Anulika was walking ahead of him, unbothered by his sulky slowness, and he hurried up to her, silent, their steps light on the grass where they, as children, had hunted grasshoppers.

  “I’m so hungry,” he said, finally.

  “You didn’t even eat the yam Mama boiled.”

  “We boil our yam with butter.”

  “We boil our yam with boh-tah. Look at your mouth. When they send you back to the village, what will you do? Where will you find boh-tah to use to boil your yam?”

  “They won’t send me back to the village.”

  She looked at him from the corners of her eyes, up and down. “You have forgotten where you come from, and now you have become so foolish you think you are a Big Man.”

  Master was in the living room when Ugwu came in and greeted him.

  “How are your people?” Master asked.

  “They are well, sah. They send greetings.”

  “Very good.”

  “My sister Anulika will be getting married soon.”

  “I see.” Master was focused on tuning the radio.

  Ugwu could hear Olanna and Baby singing in the bathroom.

  London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,

  London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.

  Baby’s London, in her tiny unformed voice, sounded like bonbon. The bathroom door was open.

  “Good evening, mah,” Ugwu said.

  “Oh, Ugwu, I didn’t hear you come in!” Olanna said. She was bent over the tub, giving Baby a bath. “Welcome, nno. Are your people well?”

  “Yes, mah. They send greetings. My mother said she cannot thank you enough for the wrappers.”

  “How is her leg?”

  “It no longer aches. She gave me ukwa for you.”

  “Eh! She must have known what I am craving now.” She turned to look at him, her hands covered in bath foam. “You look well. See your fat cheeks!”

  “Yes, mah,” Ugwu said, although it was a lie. He always lost weight when he visited home.

  “Ugwu!” Baby called. “Ugwu, come and see!” She was pressing a squawking plastic duck in her hand.

  “Baby, you can greet Ugwu after your bath,” Olanna said.

  “Anulika will be getting married soon, mah. My father said I should let you and Master know. They do not have a date yet, but they will be very happy if you come.”

  “Anulika? Is she not a little young? About sixteen-seventeen?”

  “Her mates have started to marry.”

  Olanna turned back to the tub. “Of course we will come.”

  “Ugwu!” Baby said ag
ain.

  “Shall I warm Baby’s porridge, mah?”

  “Yes. And please make her milk.”

  “Yes, mah.” He would linger for a moment and then ask her if all had gone well in the week he was away, and she would tell him which friends had come, who had brought what, if they had finished the stew he had put in containers in the freezer.

  “Your master and I have decided that Arize should come here to have her baby in September,” Olanna said.

  “That is good, mah,” Ugwu said. “I hope the baby will resemble Aunty Arize and not Uncle Nnakwanze.”

  Olanna laughed. “I hope so too. We will start cleaning the room in time. I want it to be spotless for her.”

  “It will be spotless, mah, don’t worry.” Ugwu liked Aunty Arize. He remembered her wine-carrying ceremony in Umunnachi about three years ago, how plump and bubbly she had been and how he had drunk so much palm wine that he had nearly dropped the infant Baby.

  “I’m going to Kano on Monday to pick her up and take her shopping in Lagos,” Olanna said. “I’ll take Baby. We’ll pack that blue dress Arize made for her.”

  “The pink one is better, mah. The blue one is too tight.”

  “That’s true.” Olanna picked up a plastic duck and threw it back into the tub, and Baby squealed and submerged it in the water.

  “Nkem!” Master called out. “O mego! It has happened!”

  Olanna hurried to the living room, Ugwu close behind.

  Master was standing by the radio. The television was on but the volume was off so that the dancing people looked as if they were swaying drunkenly. “There’s been a coup,” Master said, and gestured to the radio. “Major Nzeogwu is speaking from Kaduna.”

  The voice on the radio was youthful, eager, confident.

  The Constitution is suspended and the regional government and elected assemblies are hereby dissolved. My dear countrymen, the aim of the Revolutionary Council is to establish a nation free from corruption and internal strife. Our enemies are the political profiteers, the swindlers, the men in high and low places that seek bribes and demand ten percent, those that seek to keep the country divided permanently so that they can remain in office, the tribalists, the nepotists, those that make the country look big for nothing before international circles, those that have corrupted our society.

  Olanna ran to the telephone. “What is happening in Lagos? Did they say what is happening in Lagos?”

  “Your parents are fine, nkem. Civilians are safe.”

  Olanna was dialing. “Operator? Operator?” She put the phone down and picked it up again. “It isn’t going through.”

  Master gently took the phone from her. “I’m sure they are fine. The lines will come back up soon. It’s just for security.”

  On the radio, the voice had become firmer.

  I assure all foreigners that their rights will continue to be respected. We promise every law-abiding citizen the freedom from all forms of oppression, freedom from general inefficiency, and freedom to live and strive in every field of human endeavor. We promise that you will no more be ashamed to say that you are a Nigerian.

  “Mummy Ola!” Baby called from the bathroom. “Mummy Ola!”

  Ugwu went back to the bathroom and dried Baby with a towel and then hugged her, blew against her neck. She smelled deliciously of Pears baby soap.

  “Baby chicken!” he said, tickling her. Her braids were wet, the ends tightened in a curly kink, and Ugwu smoothed them and marveled again at how much she looked like her father; his people would say that Master had spit this child out.

  “More tickles!” Baby said, laughing. Her chubby face was slick with moisture.

  “Baby baby chicken,” Ugwu murmured, in the singsong way that always amused her.

  Baby laughed and, from the living room, Ugwu heard Olanna say, “Oh, God, what did he say? What did he say?”

  He was serving Baby’s porridge when the deputy president spoke briefly on the radio, the voice understated, as if he were exhausted from the effort of saying, “The government is handing over to the military.”

  There were more announcements later—the prime minister was missing, Nigeria was now a federal military government, the premiers of the North and West were missing—but Ugwu was not sure who spoke and on what station because Master sat next to the radio, turning the knob quickly, stopping, listening, turning, stopping. He had removed his glasses and looked more vulnerable with his eyes sunken deep in his face. He did not put them back on until the guests arrived. There were more today than usual, and Ugwu brought dining chairs to the living room to seat them all. Their voices were urgent and excited, each person barely waiting for the last to finish speaking.

  “This is the end of corruption! This is what we have needed to happen since that general strike,” one guest said. Ugwu did not remember his name, but he tended to eat up all the chin-chin right after it was served, so Ugwu had taken to placing the tray as far away from him as possible. The man had large hands; a few generous handfuls from the tray and all was lost.

  “Those majors are true heroes!” Okeoma said, and raised an arm.

  There was excitement in their voices even when they talked about the people who were killed.

  “They said the Sardauna hid behind his wives.”

  “They said the finance minister shit in his trousers before they shot him.”

  Some guests chuckled and so did Ugwu, until he heard Olanna say, “I knew Okonji. He was a friend of my father’s.” She sounded subdued.

  “The BBC is calling it an Igbo coup,” the chin-chin–eating guest said. “And they have a point. It was mostly Northerners who were killed.”

  “It was mostly Northerners who were in government,” Professor Ezeka whispered, his eyebrows arched, as if he could not believe he had to say what was so obvious.

  “The BBC should be asking their people who put the Northerners in government to dominate everybody!” Master said.

  Ugwu was surprised that Master and Professor Ezeka seemed to agree. He was even more surprised when Miss Adebayo said, “Those North Africans are crazy to call this an infidel versus righteous thing,” and Master laughed—not the usual derisive laugh before he shifted to the edge of his chair to challenge her; it was a laugh of approval. He agreed with her.

  “If we had more men like Major Nzeogwu in this country, we would not be where we are today,” Master said. “He actually has a vision!”

  “Isn’t he a Communist?” It was the the green-eyed Professor Lehman. “He went to Czechoslovakia when he was at Sandhurst.”

  “You Americans, always peering under people’s beds to look for communism. Do you think we have time to worry about that?” Master asked. “What matters is whatever will make our people move forward. Let’s assume that a capitalist democracy is a good thing in principle, but if it is our kind—where somebody gives you a dress that they tell you looks like their own, but it doesn’t fit you and the buttons have fallen off—then you have to discard it and make a dress that is your own size. You simply have to!”

  “Too much rhetoric, Odenigbo,” Miss Adebayo said. “You can’t make a theoretical case for the military.”

  Ugwu felt better; this was the sparring he was used to.

  “Of course I can. With a man like Major Nzeogwu, I can,” Master said. “Ugwu! More ice!”

  “The man is a Communist,” Professor Lehman insisted. His nasal voice annoyed Ugwu, or perhaps it was simply that Professor Lehman had the same fair hair as Mr. Richard but none of the quiet dignity. He wished Mr. Richard still came. He clearly remembered his last visit, months before Baby was born, but other memories of those tumultuous weeks were faded now, incomplete; he had been so afraid that Master and Olanna would never reunite and his world would crumble that he did not eavesdrop much. He would not even have known that Mr. Richard was involved in the quarrel if Harrison had not told him.

  “Thank you, my good man.” Master took the bowl of ice and clinked some into his glass.

  �
��Yes, sah,” Ugwu said, watching Olanna. Her head was supported by her clasped hands. He wished he could truly feel sorry for her friend the politician who had been killed, but politicians were not like normal people, they were politicians. He read about them in the Renaissance and Daily Times—they paid thugs to beat opponents, they bought land and houses with government money, they imported fleets of long American cars, they paid women to stuff their blouses with false votes and pretend to be pregnant. Whenever he drained a pot of boiled beans, he thought of the slimy sink as a politician.

  That night, he lay in his room in the Boys’ Quarters and tried to concentrate on The Mayor of Casterbridge, but it was difficult. He hoped Chinyere would slip under the hedge and come over; they never planned it, she just appeared on some days and didn’t on others. He ached for her to come on this exciting night of the coup that had changed the order of things and throbbed with possibility, with newness. When he heard her tap on the window, he offered up a bashful thanks to the gods.

  “Chinyere,” he said.

  “Ugwu,” she said.

  She smelled of stale onions. The light was off, and in the thin stream that came from the security bulb outside he saw the cone-shaped rise of her breasts as she pulled her blouse off, untied the wrapper around her waist, and lay on her back. There was something moist about the darkness, about their bodies close together, and he imagined that she was Nnesinachi and that the taut legs encircling him were Nnesinachi’s. She was silent at first and then, hips thrashing, her hands tight around his back, she called out the same thing she said every time. It sounded like a name—Abonyi, Abonyi—but he wasn’t sure. Perhaps she imagined that he was someone else too, someone back in her village.

  She got up and left as silently as she came. When he saw her the next day across the hedge, hanging out clothes on the line, she said “Ugwu” and nothing else; she did not smile.