Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
PART I
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
PART II
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
PART III
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
PART IV
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
PART V
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
PART VI
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Chinelo Okparanta
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Okparanta, Chinelo.
Under the udala trees / Chinelo Okparanta.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-544-00344-6 (hardcover)—ISBN 978-0-544-00336-1 (ebook)
1. Nigeria—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3615.K73U53 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014044506
Map by Rachel Newborn
Jacket design by Michaela Sullivan
Jacket art © Swim Ink 2, LLC/Corbis
v1.0915
For Constance, Chibueze, Chinenye, Chidinma
And for Obiora
Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for,
the evident demonstration of realities, though not beheld.
—HEBREWS 11:1
PART I
1
MIDWAY BETWEEN Old Oba-Nnewi Road and New Oba-Nnewi Road, in that general area bound by the village church and the primary school, and where Mmiri John Road drops off only to begin again, stood our house in Ojoto. It was a yellow-painted two-story cement construction built along the dusty brown trails just south of River John, where Papa’s mother almost drowned when she was a girl, back when people still washed their clothes on the rocky edges of the river.
Ours was a gated compound, guarded at the front by thickets of rose and hibiscus bushes. Leading up to the bushes, a pair of parallel green hedges grew, dotted heavily in pink by tiny, star-like ixora flowers. Vendors lined the road adjacent to the hedges, as did trees thick with fruit: orange, guava, cashew, and mango trees. In the recesses of the roadsides, where the bushes rose high like a forest, even more trees stood: tall irokos, whistling pines, and a scattering of oil and coconut palms. We had to turn our eyes up toward the sky to see the tops of these trees. So high were the bushes and so tall were the trees.
In the harmattan, the Sahara winds arrived and stirred up the dust, and clouded the air, and rendered the trees and bushes wobbly like a mirage, and made the sun a blurry ball in the sky.
In the rainy season, the rains wheedled the wildness out of the dust, and everything took back its clarity and its shape.
This was the normal cycle of things: the rainy season followed by the dry season, and the harmattan folding itself within the dry. All the while, goats bleated. Dogs barked. Hens and roosters scuttled up and down the roads, staying close to the compounds to which they belonged. Striped swordtails and monarchs, grass yellows and redtops—all the butterflies—flitted leisurely from one flower to the next.
As for us, we moved about in that unhurried way of the butterflies, as if the breeze was sweet, as if the sun on our skin was a caress. As if slow paces allowed for the savoring of both. This was the way things were before the war: our lives, tamely moving forward.
It was 1967 when the war barged in and installed itself all over the place. By 1968, the whole of Ojoto had begun pulsing with the ruckus of armored cars and shelling machines, bomber planes and their loud engines sending shock waves through our ears.
By 1968, our men had begun slinging guns across their shoulders and carrying axes and machetes, blades glistening in the sun; and out on the streets, every hour or two in the afternoons and evenings, their chanting could be heard, loud voices pouring out like libations from their mouths: “Biafra, win the war!”
That second year of the war—1968—Mama sent me off.
By this time, talk of all the festivities that would take place when Biafra defeated Nigeria had already begun to dwindle, supplanted, rather, by a collective fretting over what would become of us when Nigeria prevailed: Would we be stripped of our homes, and of our lands? Would we be forced into menial servitude? Would we be reduced to living on rationed food? How long into the future would we have to bear the burden of our loss? Would we recover?
All these questions, because by 1968, Nigeria was already winning, and everything had already changed.
But there were to be more changes.
There is no way to tell the story of what happened with Amina without first telling the story of Mama’s sending me off. Likewise, there is no way to tell the story of Mama’s sending me off without also telling of Papa’s refusal to go to the bunker. Without his refusal, the sending away might never have occurred, and if the sending away had not occurred, then I might never have met Amina.
If I had not met Amina, who knows, there might be no story at all to tell.
So, the story begins even before the story, on June 23, 1968. Ubosi chi ji ehihe jie: the day night fell in the afternoon, as the saying goes. Or as Mama sometimes puts it, the day that night overtook day: the day that Papa took his leave from us.
It was a Sunday, but we had not gone to church that morning on account of the coming raid. The night before, the radios had announced that enemy planes would once more be on the offensive, for the next couple of days at least. It was best for anyone with any sort of common sense to stay home, Papa said. Mama agreed.
Not far from me in the parlor, Papa sat at his desk, hunched over, his elbows on his thighs, his head resting on his fisted hands. The scent of Mama’s fried akara, all the way from the kitchen, was bursting into the parlor air.
Papa sat with his forehead furrowed and his nose pinched, as if the sweet and spicy scent of the akara had somehow become a foul odor in the air. Next to him, his radio-gramophone. In front of him, a pile of newspapers.
Early that morning, he had listened to the radio with its vo
lume turned up high, as if he were hard of hearing. He had listened intently as all the voices spilled out from Radio Biafra. Even when Mama had come and asked him to turn it down, that the thing was disturbing her peace, that not everybody wanted to be reminded at every moment of the day that the country was falling apart, still he had listened to it as loudly as it would sound.
But now the radio sat with its volume so low that all that could be heard from it was a thin static sound, a little like the scratching of skin.
Until the war came, Papa looked only lovingly at the radio-gramophone. He cherished it the way things that matter to us are cherished: Bibles and old photos, water and air. It was, after all, the same radio-gramophone passed down to him from his father, who had died the year I was born. All the grandparents had then followed Papa’s father’s lead—the next year, Papa’s mother passed; and the year after, and the one after that, Mama lost both her parents. Papa and Mama were only children, no siblings, which they liked to say was one of the reasons they cherished each other: that they were, aside from me, the only family they had left.
But gone were the days of his looking lovingly at the radio-gramophone. That particular afternoon, he sat glaring at the bulky box of a thing.
He turned to the stack of newspapers that sat above his drawing paper: about a month’s worth of the Daily Times, their pages wrinkled at the corners and the sides. He picked one up and began flipping through the pages, still with that worried look on his face.
I went up to him at his desk, stood so close that I could not help but take in the smell of his Morgan’s hair pomade, the one in the yellow and red tin-capped container, which always reminded me of medicine. If only the war were some sort of illness, if only all that was needed was a little medicine.
He replaced the newspaper he was reading on the pile. On that topmost front page were the words SAVE US. Underneath the words, a photograph of a child with an inflated belly held up by limbs as thin as rails: a kwashiorkor child, a girl who looked as if she could have been my age. She was just another Igbo girl, but she could easily have been me.
Papa was wearing one of his old, loose-fitting sets of buba and sokoto, the color a dull green, faded from a lifetime of washes. He looked up and smiled slightly at me, a smile that was a little like a lie, lacking any emotion, but he smiled it still.
“Kedu?” he asked.
He drew me close, and I leaned into him, but I remained silent, unsure of how to respond. How was I?
I could have given him the usual response to that question, just answered that I was fine, but how could anyone have been fine during those days? Only a person who was simultaneously blind and deaf and dumb, and generally senseless and unfeeling, could possibly have been fine given the situation with the war and the always-looming raids.
Or if the person were already dead.
We stayed in silence, and I observed the rigidness of his posture, the way his back refused to lean against the chair. His legs appeared to be stuck firmly to the ground. His lips spread, not in a smile, but like a child about to cry. He opened his mouth to speak, but words did not come out.
The night before, late, when I should already have been asleep, but when sleep was refusing to come, I had snuck down to the parlor out of not knowing what else to do with myself. Just outside my bedroom door, I saw that a soft light was coming from the direction of the parlor. I tiptoed toward the light, and toward the soft sounds that were also coming from that direction. Behind the slight wall where the parlor met the dining room, in that little space, barely a nook, I stopped, peeked, and I saw Papa in that now-familiar position, sitting on his chair, leaning on his desk, listening intently to his radio. So late at night, and yet there he was.
I stood quietly and eavesdropped, and I heard the story. Of one Mr. Njoku, an Igbo man who was tied up with a rope, doused with petrol, and then set on fire. Right here in the South, the announcer said. It’d been happening all over the place in the North, but suddenly it had begun happening in the South as well. Hausas setting us on fire, trying hard to destroy us, and our land, and everything we owned.
“Papa? Has something happened?” I asked. By “something” I meant something bad, something like the petrol-dousing that I had heard of the night before.
Papa shook his head as if to try again. In a faint voice, he said, “What can we do? There’s not much any one person can do. And to worry over it would be like pouring water over stone. The stone just gets wet. Eventually it dries. But nothing changes.”
For a moment, the only sound was the clanging of Mama’s pots and pans in the kitchen. Soon the akara would be done, and she would call us to eat the way she always did, even before the war.
Papa took me by both arms, looked me in the eyes. Very softly, he said: “I want to tell you something. It’s nothing you don’t already know, but I want to tell it to you again, like a reminder. So you don’t forget.”
“What?” I asked, wondering what it was that I already knew but might soon forget.
He said: “I want you to know that your papa loves you very much. I want you to always know it and to never forget it.”
I sighed, out of a sort of disappointment that it should be something so obvious. I said, “Papa, I already know.”
In the moment that followed, it seemed as if he were suddenly feeling all the weight and pain and hollowness of the world inside of him. There was a distant look on his face, as if he were estranged from everything he knew and also more profoundly than ever connected to it.
The muttering began. Something about the way Nigeria was already making a skeleton out of Biafra. Nsukka and then Enugu had been seized, followed by Onitsha. And, just last month, Port Harcourt.
He rambled on like that. His voice was a monotone. He seemed to have fallen into a trance.
It wouldn’t be much longer before there was no more Biafra left to seize, he said. “Will Ojukwu surrender to Nigeria? Or will he fight until all of us Biafrans are dead and gone?” He looked toward the parlor window, his eyes even more glazed over.
Maybe it had nothing to do with the weight or pain or hollowness of the world. Maybe it was simply about his role in the world. Maybe it was that he could not have imagined himself in a Nigeria in which Biafra had been defeated. Maybe the thought of having to live out his life under a new regime where he would be forced to do without everything he had worked for—all those many years of hard work—a new regime where Biafrans would be considered lesser citizens—slaves—like the rumors claimed, was too much for him to bear.
Whatever the case, he had lost hope. Mama says that war has a way of changing people, that even a brave man occasionally loses hope, and sometimes all the pleading in the world cannot persuade him to begin hoping again.
June 23, 1968. About a year into the war, and the bomber planes were at it again, like lorries that had somehow forgotten the road and were instead tearing through the sky. Papa must have heard it just as it began—the same time that I heard it too—because he stood up from his desk, grabbed my hand. The sun, which had been shining strongly through the open windows, suddenly seemed to disappear. Now the sky seemed overcast.
First he pulled me along with him, the way he usually did when it was time to head to the bunker. But then he did something that he had never done before: at the junction between the dining room and the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks. There was something corpse-like about him, the look of a man who was on the verge of giving up on life. Very pale. More than a little zombie-like.
He let go of my hand and nudged me to go on without him. But I would not go. I remained, and I watched as he went back into the parlor, took a seat on the edge of the sofa, and fixed his gaze in the direction of the windows.
Mama ran into the parlor, hollering, calling out to us, “Unu abuo, bia ka’yi je!” You two, come, let’s go! “You don’t hear the sounds? Binie! Get up! Let’s go!”
She ran to Papa, pulled him by the arms, and I pulled him too, but Papa continued to sit. In that mom
ent his body could have been a tower of hardened cement, a molding of ice, or maybe even, like Lot’s wife, a pillar of salt. “Unu abuo, gawa. You two go on,” he said. “I’ll be all right. Just let me be.”
His voice was raspy, something in it like the feel of sandpaper, or like the sound of a crate being dragged down a concrete corridor.
That was the way we left him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his eyes fixed in the direction of the windows.
The bunker was in the back of our house, a few yards beyond where our fence separated the compound from the bush lot. We ran out the back door without him, stepping over the palm fronds that, months before, he had spread around the compound for camouflage.
At the back gate, Mama stopped once more to call out to Papa.
“Uzo! Uzo! Uzo!”
The saying goes that things congealed by cold shall be melted by heat. But even in the heat of the moment, he did not melt.
“Uzo! Uzo! Uzo!” she called again.
If he had heard, still, he refused to come.
2
OUR CHURCH WAS not too far down the road from our two-story house. It sat at the corner near where the row of houses ended and the open-air market began.
It was over a year prior to that June 23 that I prayed my first prayer to God regarding the war. Early March, to be exact. I know, because it was ripening season for guavas and pepperfruit and velvet tamarinds, that period of the year when the dry season was just getting over and the wet about to begin. The harmattan winds were still blowing, but our hair and skin were no longer as dry and brittle as in mid-harmattan. Our catarrhs had come and gone. It was no longer too dusty or too cool.
For all the years that we lived in Ojoto, it was to that church, Holy Sabbath Church of God, that we went every Sunday. It was in that church that we sat, on the parallel wooden benches that ran in even rows, listening to Bible sermons. Together with the sermons, we prayed; and together with the praying, we clapped and we sang. By the time morning turned into afternoon, we exhausted our prayers, grew out of breath with singing. Our arms dangled, limp from so much clapping, all that fervent worship.
Under the Udala Trees Page 1
