The O. Henry Prize Stories 2014

by Laura Furman

  Clara looks at Onyechi, her eyes narrow, a suspicious look. Boma chuckles in disbelief. She claps her hands, her eyes widen. She exclaims, “Chi m O! My God! How fast the miracle!” Onyechi shakes her head, tells us that it was no miracle at all. It is then that she tells us of the bleach. Boma chuckles again. I think of Eno, of returning home and telling her what Onyechi has said. I listen and nod, trying to catch every bit of the formula. Clara says, “I don’t believe it.” Onyechi kisses the palm of her right hand and raises it high toward the sky, a swear to God, because she insists that she is not telling a lie. Our skin is the color not of ripe pawpaw peels, but of its seeds. We are thirsty for fairness. But even with her swearing, we are unconvinced, a little too disbelieving of what Onyechi has said.

  Hours later, I sit on a stool outside, in the backyard of our house. I sit under the mango tree, across from the hibiscus bush. Ekaite is at the far end of the backyard where the clotheslines hang. She collects Papa’s shirts from the line, a row of them, which wave in the breeze like misshapen flags. Even in the near darkness, I can see the yellowness of Ekaite’s skin. A natural yellow, not like Onyechi’s or some of the other girls’. Not like Mama’s.

  Eno sits with me, and at first we trace the lizards with our eyes. We watch as they race up and down the gate. We watch as they scurry over the gravel, over the patches of grass. When we are tired of watching, we dig the earth deep, seven pairs of holes in the ground, and one large one on each end of the seven pairs. We take turns tossing our pebbles into the holes. We remove the pebbles, also taking turns. We capture more and more of them until one of us wins. The game begins again.

  The sounds of car engines mix with the sounds of the crickets. It is late evening, and the sky is gray. Car headlights sneak through the spaces between the metal rods of the gate. The gray becomes a little less gray, a little like day. Still, mosquitoes swirl around, and I slap them, and I slap myself, and Eno stops with the game, unties one of the two wrappers from around her waist, hands it to me.

  At the clothesline, Ekaite is slapping too. She is slapping even more than Eno and I. Her skirt only comes down to her knees; she is not wearing a wrapper with which she can cover her legs.

  I say, “They bite us all the same.”

  Eno says, “No, they bite Ekaite more. Even the mosquitoes prefer fair skin.” The words come out like a mutter. Her tone is something between anger and dejection. I imagine the flesh of a ripe pawpaw. It is not quite the shade of Ekaite’s skin, but it, too, is fair. I throw Eno’s wrapper over my legs.

  Emmanuel walks by, carrying a bucket. Water trickles down the side. A chewing stick hangs from the side of his mouth. His lips curve into a crooked smile. He stops by Ekaite, maybe they share a joke, because then comes the cracking of his laughter, and then hers, surging, rising, then tapering into the night sounds, at the very moment when it seems that they might become insufferable. I look at Eno. Eno frowns.

  Emmanuel pours the water out of the bucket, at the corner of the compound where the sand dips into the earth like a sewer. The scent of chlorine billows in the air, and I think of Onyechi and her swearing. I exhume the memory of the morning break, toss it about in my mind, like a pebble in the air, as if to get a feel for its texture, its potential, its capacity for success. And then I tell it to Eno.

  When the sky grows black, I hand Eno back her wrapper, and we enter the house. We go together to the bathroom. First we pour the bleach into the bucket. Only a quarter of the way full. Then we watch the water bubble out of the faucet. We inhale and exhale deeply, and the sound of our breathing is weirdly louder than the sound of the running water. We caress the buckets with our eyes as if we are caressing our very hearts. The bucket fills. We turn the faucet off and gaze into the tub. We are still gazing when Ekaite calls Eno. Her voice booms down the corridor, and Eno runs off, because she knows well that she should not be in the bathroom with me. Because Eno knows that she must instead use the housegirls’ bathroom, outside in the housegirls’ quarters in the far corner of the backyard. But mostly, when Ekaite calls, Eno runs off, because dinner will be served in just an hour, and Eno will have to help in the preparation of it.

  At the dining table, Papa sits at the head, Mama by his side. The scent of egusi soup enters through the kitchen. Mama picks up her spoon, looks into it, unscrews the tiny canister, still with the spoon in her hand. It is lavender, the canister, and the lipstick in it is a rich color, red like the hibiscus flower; and it rises from the container, slowly, steadily, like a lizard cautiously peeking out of a hole. Overhead the ceiling fan rattles and buzzes. The air conditioner hums, like soft snoring. In the kitchen we hear the clang-clanging of Ekaite’s and Eno’s food preparation: of the pestle hitting the mortar, yam being pounded for the soup. Off and on, there is the sound of the running faucet. We listen to the clink of silverware on glass. I imagine the plates and utensils being set out on the granite countertop, and then I hear a sound like the shutting of the fridge, that shiny, stainless steel door all the way from America. And I wonder if Ekaite ever takes the time to look at her reflection in the door. And if she does, does she see herself in that superior way in which I imagine all fair people see themselves?

  A bowl of velvet tamarinds sits at the center of the table, a glass bowl in the shape of a dissected apple, its short glass stem leading to a small glass leaf. Mama got it on one of her business trips overseas. She returned from that trip with other things too—silk blouses from Macy’s, some Chanel, Bebe, Coach, some Nike wear. The evening she returned, she tossed all the items in piles on her side of the bed. She tossed herself contentedly, too, on the bed, on a small area on Papa’s side, the only remaining space. She held up some of the overseas items for me to see. One blouse she lifted up closer to me, held it to my chest. It was the yellow of a ripe pineapple. “Will lighten you up,” she said. She tossed it to me. I didn’t reach for it in time. It dropped to the floor.

  The first magazine arrived two weeks later, Cosmopolitan, pale faces and pink lips decorating the cover, women with hair the color of fresh corn. Perfect arches above their eyes. Next was Glamour, then Elle. And every evening following that, Mama would sit on the parlor sofa for hours, flipping through the pages of the magazines, her eyes moving rapidly over and over the same pages, as if she were studying hard for the JAMB, as if there were some fashion equivalent to those university exams.

  • • •

  I stare at the dissected apple, at the velvet tamarinds in it. I imagine picking one of the tamarinds up, a small one, something smaller than those old kobo coins, smaller than the tiniest one of them. Ekaite shuffles into the dining room, Eno close behind. They find themselves some space between me and the empty chair next to me. Ekaite sets the first tray down, three bowls of pounded yam.

  She lifts the first bowl out of the tray. She sets it on the place mat in front of Mama. Mama smiles at her, thanks her. Then, “Osiso, osiso,” Mama says. “Quick, quick, bring the soup!” Ekaite hurries back to where Eno is standing, takes out a bowl of soup from Eno’s tray, sets it in front of Mama. Mama says, “Good girl. Very good girl.” The skin around Mama’s eyes wrinkles from her deepening smile. Ekaite nods and does not smile back. Eno, by my side, is more than unsmiling, and I can hardly blame her. But then I remember the bucket in the bathroom, and I feel hope billowing in me. Hope rising: the promise of relief.

  It is Eno who serves Papa and me our food. She puts our dishes of pounded yam and soup on our place mats, still unsmiling. Papa thanks her, but it is a thank-you that lacks all the fawning that Mama’s for Ekaite had. He thanks her in his quiet, aloof way, as if his mind is in his office, or somewhere far from home.

  Mama waves Eno away. I watch her hand waving, the gold rings on her fingers, the bracelet that dangles from her wrist. I take in the yellowness of her hand. I think of the bucket in the bathroom, and I feel that hope again in me.

  “Uzoamaka,” Mama says, when Eno and Ekaite have disappeared into the kitchen. “You are looking very tattered toda
y.”

  Papa squints at her. I don’t respond.

  “It’s no way to present yourself at the dinner table,” she says. The words tumble out of her mouth, one connected to the other, and I imagine rolls of her pounded yam all lined up on her plate, no space between them. Like her words, I think, that American way, one word tumbling into the next with no space between.

  Papa looks at me for a moment, taking me in as if for the first time in a long time. “How was school today?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Mama says, “A good week so far. A good month even. Imagine, an entire month and no strike! Surprising, with the way those lecturers are always on strike.”

  “No, no strike so far,” I say.

  “In any case,” Mama says. “Not to worry.” She pauses. “Arrangements are already being made.”

  Papa shakes his head slightly, barely perceptibly, but we both see, Mama and I.

  “She needs a good education,” Mama says to him, as if to counter the shaking of his head. She turns to me. “You need a good education,” she says. It is not a new idea, this one of a good education, but she has that serious look on her face, as if she is weighing it with that thoughtfulness that accompanies new ideas. “That is what America will give you,” she says. “A solid education. And no strikes. Imagine, with a degree from America, you can land a job with a big company here, or maybe even remain in America. Land of opportunities.” She smiles at me. Her smile is wide.

  Papa stuffs a roll of soup-covered pounded yam into his mouth. He keeps his eyes on me. Mama turns back to her food. She rolls her pounded yam, dips it into the bowl of soup, swallows. For a while, no one speaks.

  “In the meantime, you can’t walk around looking tattered the way you do, shirt untucked, hair unbrushed. As for your face, you’d do well to dab some powder on. It will help brighten you up.”

  Papa clears his throat. Mama turns to look at him. His eyes narrow at her. She starts to speak, but her words trail into a murmur and then into nothing at all.

  There is another silence. This time it is Mama who clears her throat. Then she turns to me. She says, “Even Ekaite presents herself better than you do. The bottom line is that you could learn a little something from her. Housegirl or not.”

  I roll my eyes and feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

  “Very well-mannered, that one. Takes care of herself. Beautiful all around.” It is not the first time she is saying this.

  I roll my eyes like I always do. “Eno is pretty too,” I counter. It is the first time that I am countering Mama on Ekaite. I only intend to mutter it, but it comes out louder than a mutter. I look up to find Mama glaring at me. I catch Papa’s eyes on me, a little sharper than before.

  “Eno is pretty too,” Mama repeats, singsongy, mockingly. “Foolish Eno. Dummy Eno.” She has to say “dummy” twice, because the first time it comes out too Nigerian, with the accent on the last syllable instead of on the first. She tells me that Eno is no comparison to Ekaite. Not just where beauty is concerned. What a good housegirl Ekaite is, she says. She adds, an unnecessary reminder, that when Ekaite was around Eno’s age, which is to say fourteen, the same age as me, Ekaite already knew how to make egusi and okra soup. And what tasty soups Ekaite made as early as fourteen! Even Ekaite’s beans and yams, Mama continues, were the beans and yams of an expert, at fourteen. “The girl knows how to cook,” she concludes. “Just a good girl all around.” She pauses. “Eno is no comparison. No comparison at all.”

  Papa clears his throat. “They’re both good girls,” he says. He nods at me, smiles, a weak smile. In that brief moment I wonder what he knows. Whether he knows, like I do, that it’s only bias, the way Mama feels about Ekaite. Whether he knows, like I do, that the reason for the bias is that Ekaite’s face reminds her of the faces she sees on her magazines from abroad. Because, of course, Ekaite’s complexion is light and her nose is not as wide and her lips not as thick as mine or Eno’s. I look at him and I wonder if he knows, like I do, that Mama doesn’t go as far as saying these last bits because, of course, she’d feel a little shame in saying it.

  He dips his pounded yam into his soup. Mama does the same.

  • • •

  I don’t touch my food. Instead, I stare at the velvet tamarinds, and I remember the first time she came back with boxes of those creams. Esoterica, Movate, Skin Success, Ambi. It was around the time the television commercials started advertising them—the fade creams. And we’d go to the Everyday Emporium, and there’d be stacks of them at the entrance, neat pyramids of creams. It was around the time that the first set of girls in school started to grow lighter. Mama’s friends, the darker ones, started to grow lighter, too. Mama did not at first grow light with them. She was cautious. She’d only grow light if she had the best quality of creams, not just the brands they sold at the Everyday Emporium. She wanted first-rate, the kinds she knew America would have. And so she made the trip and returned with boxes of creams.

  Movate worked immediately for her. In just a few weeks, her skin had turned that shade of yellow. It worked for her knuckles, for her knees. Yellow all around, uniform yellow, almost as bright as Ekaite’s pawpaw skin.

  She insisted I use them too. With Movate, patches formed all over my skin, dark and light patches, like shadows on a wall. She insisted I stop. People would know, she said. Those dark knuckles and kneecaps and eyelids. People would surely know. We tried Esoterica next. A six-month regimen. Three times a day. No progress at all. Skin Success was no success. Same with Ambi. “Not to worry,” Mama said. “They’re always coming up with new products in America. Soon enough we’ll find something that works.”

  We must have been on Ambi the day Ekaite walked in on us—into my bedroom, not thinking that I was there. I should have been at school. She was carrying a pile of my clothes, washed and dried and folded for me.

  Ekaite looked at the containers of creams on my bed.

  Mama chuckled uncomfortably. “Oya ga-wa,” she said. Well, go ahead.

  Ekaite walked to my dresser. The drawers slid open and closed. Empty-handed now, she walked back toward the door.

  Mama chuckled again and said, “Uzoamaka here will soon be fair like you.”

  Ekaite nodded. “Yes, Ma.” There was a confused look on her face, as if she were wondering at the statement.

  Mama cleared her throat. “Fair like me too.”

  Ekaite nodded again. Then she turned to Mama. “Odi kwa mma otu odi.” She’s fine the way she is.

  Mama shook her head. “Oya ga-wa! Osiso, osiso.” The door clicked closed.

  I tell Mama that I’m not feeling well. An upset stomach. I excuse myself from the table before Mama has a chance to respond.

  I carry my dishes into the kitchen, where Eno is waiting for me. Ekaite sits on a stool close to the floor. I feel her eyes on me and on Eno.

  Inside the bathroom, the air is humid and smells clean, purified, a chemical kind of freshness. There is no lock on the door, but we make sure to close it behind us.

  Eno holds the towel and stands back, but I call her to me, because I am again finding myself skeptical of the water and of the bleach. In my imagination, I see Clara’s suspicious eyes, and I hear Boma’s disbelieving laugh. Fear catches me, and I think perhaps we should not bother, perhaps we should just pour everything out. But then I hear Mama’s voice, saying, “Foolish Eno. Dummy Eno.” I take the towel from Eno. “You should go first,” I say. It is a deceitful reason that I give, but it is also true: “Because you’re not supposed to be here. That way you’ll be already done by the time anyone comes to chase you out.”

  Eno nods. She concedes straightaway.

  She gets on her knees, bends her body over the wall of the bathtub so that her upper half hangs horizontally above the tub, so that her face is just above the bucket.

  “We’ll do only the face today,” I say. “Dip it in until you feel something like a tingle.”

  She dips her face into the water. She stays that way for
some time, holding her breath. Even if I’m not the one with my face submerged, it is hard for me to breathe. So much anticipation.

  Eno lifts up her face. “My back is starting to ache, and I don’t feel anything.”

  “You have to do it for longer,” I say. “Stand up, stretch your back. But you have to try to stay longer.”

  Eno stands up. She lifts her hands above her head in a stretch. She gets back down on her knees, places her face into the bucket again.

  “Only get up when you feel the tingling,” I say.

  Time passes.

  “Do you feel it yet?”

  The back of Eno’s head moves from side to side, a shake with her face still in the water.

  More time passes.

  “Not yet?”

  The back of Eno’s head moves again from side to side.

  “Okay. Come up.”

  She lifts her face from the water first. She stands up. The color of her skin seems softer to the eyes, just a little lighter than before. I smile at her. “It’s working,” I say. “But we need to go full force.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Good.” She watches as I pour the liquid from the bucket into the tub. We both watch as the water drains; we listen as it gurgles down the pipe. I take the bucket out of the tub, place it in a corner of the bathroom by the sink. The bath bowl is sitting in the sink. I pick it up, hold it above the tub, pour the bleach straight into it. I get down on my knees, call Eno to my side, tell her to place her face into the bowl. She does. Only a little time passes, and then she screams, and her scream billows in the bathroom, fills up every tiny bit of the room, and I am dizzy with claustrophobia. Then there is the thud and splash of the bowl in the tub, then there is the thud of the door slamming into the wall. Ekaite rushes toward us, sees that it is Eno who is in pain. She reaches her hands out to Eno, holds Eno’s face in her palms. Eno screams, twists her face. Her cheeks contort as if she is sucking in air. She screams and screams. I feel the pain in my own face. Ekaite looks as if she feels it too, and for a moment I think I see tears forming in her eyes. Papa looms in the doorway, then enters the bathroom. He looks fiercely at me. He asks, “What did you do to her? What did you do?” In the doorway, I see Mama just watching, her eyes flicking this way and that.