Happiness, Like Water

by Chinelo Okparanta

  They had been sitting in the parlour when Nneka told Chibuzo of the healing. It was night time, and NEPA had taken light, so it was dark all around, except for the small flame of the candle that sat on a denuded kom kom.

  Nneka told him the story very simply: that she herself had gone to a dibia, a long time ago. She’d gone for the same reasons that she was recommending the dibia for Ezinne: because a long time ago, she too had been unable to conceive. It was only thanks to the dibia that she was finally able to get with child—finally able to beget Ezinne, which was lucky, because, had she not, there was a good chance that Ezinne’s father—God rest his soul—would have cast her away and taken another wife. She would not have blamed him, she said. After all, what kind of man was content to keep an mgbaliga, an empty barrel, as a wife?

  Ezinne was in the bedroom when Nneka made the revelation. The room was down the corridor, past the kitchen.

  Ezinne was also in the bedroom now, weeks later. The dinner had worn her out, physically—because she was after all the one who made the preparations for it (with just a little help from Nneka and from the housegirls). It had been mentally exhausting too, because all the while her mind had been heavy with the knowledge that she was the subject of the dinner, that some imperfection in her was the reason for all that wahala, all that trouble. And what if the imperfection was not really even in her? What if it was in him? It was a thought that she could not dare voice. It was generally understood that such things were the fault of the woman.

  Earlier this morning, just at the break of dawn, they had all three of them driven to the dibia’s. (Chibuzo had gone along on the visit. It was in his best interest to do so, he said. Besides, it was a Saturday. He could afford to go along, not having the constraint of work.)

  The dibia’s place was in the outskirts of Port Harcourt, one of the villages at nearly an hour’s drive from Rumuola. The road leading directly into the village was made of earth, not paved with tar like all the roads that came before. Green and yellow grass stood on either side of it, the blades rising high, as tall as small children. And then there were the goats, fading in and out of the grass, and the cows, and the chickens, and also the dogs.

  Emmanuel, Nneka’s chauffeur, was the one who drove them there. Every once in a while, he turned a corner and exclaimed, ‘Sorry o! Ndo!’ because, in those parts where the green grass grew high, and the cornstalks stood even taller than the grass, it was hard for him to see the cows. And so, coming out of several turns, he’d very nearly hit a cow, and he’d slam forcefully on the brakes, and there’d be that sudden jerk of the SUV followed by his apology. It was indeed a bumpy ride. But eventually they arrived.

  The dibia practised in one corner of her veranda. In another corner she sold snacks—sweets, Nabisco wafers, chewing gum, groundnuts, as well as the oils and roots she used in her healing.

  The veranda was made of grey cement. Its roof was an extension of the main house’s roof: it was made of thatch, and of patches of zinc. A railing ran around the front of the veranda, like a half-wall. In the corner where there were no items to be sold sat a stool, and to the side of the stool—on the veranda’s railing—a jerrycan of water, a clear drinking glass and a straw, which rose like a buoy from inside the glass.

  It was hot on the veranda, but it was a dry sort of heat, no mugginess to it. In the horizon, the sky was a soft blue. Despite her hopelessness, Ezinne noticed this. Or perhaps it was owing to her hopelessness that she noticed. It was a soft blue sky, but there were streaks of white in it, large streaks, a little like oversized feathers.

  The dibia was a small woman with grey hair and teeth that must have, long ago, resulted in a beautiful smile. But now her teeth were cracked and yellowed, and her lips were tightened and wrinkled, remnants of old beauty. She wore thin gold bangles on her wrist. They jingled and chimed as she moved her arm, as she waved Ezinne over to take a seat on the stool.

  Ezinne told the dibia of the pain. She said that it came in her lower belly each time Chibuzo inserted himself into her. It hadn’t always been there, she explained. It had come on suddenly, one of the nights that she lay with Chibuzo, some months after they were wed. Perhaps it was a thing that happened because she had by then already begun to grow afraid of not being able to bear Chibuzo a child. In any case, each time afterwards that he made to enter her, she stiffened, and there was the pain. Or rather, she said, it was hard to tell which one came first—the stiffening or the pain.

  The dibia listened. She nodded sparingly as Ezinne explained, and then she responded that, whatever the issue, whether it was pain or just fear, she was sure she could cause it to disappear.

  ‘Amen!’ Nneka exclaimed from where she sat at the rear of the veranda.

  Chibuzo, seated there by Nneka’s side, did not say a word.

  Ezinne exhaled.

  On the railing, near where the jerrycan and glass and straw sat, were also two glass bottles of oils, with brown roots or some plant-like substances in them. The dibia took the smaller of the two bottles, twisted off the cap, poured a bit of the oil into her hand. With her fingers, she dabbed the oil on Ezinne—on her forehead, on the sides of her face, on the back of her neck, on her chest (the triangle of skin which the deep V-neck of her blouse made visible). The air smelled of manure, of cow dung, and Ezinne breathed it all in and allowed herself to be dabbed. She leaned her back into the railing of the veranda—the part of it where there were no items in the way.

  The dibia moved on from the oil. She raised the glass and straw, rinsed them using the water in the jerrycan. She rinsed holding them over the veranda’s railing, so that the water poured outside the veranda, onto the grass and gravel there. Afterwards, she shook out the glass and straw as if to dry them. She blew through the straw, as if to get rid of any latent sediment. Then she filled the glass nearly to its brim with the water from the jerrycan. She stuck the straw into the water in the glass. She was ready then to proceed with the healing.

  Chibuzo sat by Nneka and watched. So far, it was just as Nneka had explained it would be. And it was just as Chibuzo had dreamt it would be.

  The dibia brought the glass, the straw still in it, to the side of Ezinne’s face. She blew into the straw so that bubbles formed in the water. She brought the glass to the other side of Ezinne’s face. She blew into the straw again, so that more bubbles formed. The water turned a little cloudy. Just as in the dream.

  She brought the glass to Ezinne’s chest and continued to blow into the straw. She lowered the glass slowly downwards, lingering in the area of Ezinne’s belly, and then lower. She blew and blew.

  Ezinne watched the dibia. She took in the wrinkles on the woman’s face—the way the age spots blemished her skin like dark stars on the surface of a light-coloured sky. She took in the seriousness of the dibia’s face, and the deep purple of the blouse the dibia wore, deep purple like a bruise, Ezinne thought.

  Every once in a while, Ezinne closed her eyes and simply listened to the cracking of the bubbles, and to the jingling of the dibia’s bangles as they bumped one against another and around the dibia’s wrist.

  The dibia continued to blow. The water in the glass became cloudier—a foamy sort of cloudiness, a little like palm wine. Then suddenly the liquid was becoming yellowish, and then there was sediment visible in it—small brownish particles, which floated and multiplied inside the glass.

  The dibia stopped. She raised the glass, peered at it, used the straw to prod the particles in the liquid. She shook her head in dismay. She said, ‘Not good. Not good at all.’

  ‘What?’ Ezinne asked, alarmed. Her mother had by now gotten up from where she sat waiting in the rear of the room. Chibuzo stood too. They approached Ezinne and the dibia. What is the matter? their faces seemed to ask.

  The dibia continued to shake her head, continued to prod the particles in the glass. Finally, she stuck her hand into the liquid and pulled out one of the small brownish particles in it. She inspected the particle with her fingers, turned it this w
ay and that, brought it closer to her eyes. Some sand had come out with the particle. She wiped off the sand, and then she said, ‘These are the impurities in you. Fish scale. Sand.’ She was still inspecting the particle as she spoke. She finished, ‘You’ve been cursed by the enchanted.’

  ‘Cursed by the enchanted?’ Chibuzo asked. This part was not as he had dreamt.

  Nneka began to whimper.

  Ezinne sat quietly, stunned.

  ‘Cursed by the enchanted?’ Chibuzo asked again.

  The dibia nodded. ‘The spirits,’ she said. ‘They curse us sometimes for no reason at all. Or sometimes they curse us because something or someone has inadvertently angered them. Or sometimes simply because they are in a bad mood.’ She paused. ‘Don’t worry. I will clean you of their curses. I will make you well again.’ With that, she lowered her hand, flicked off the particle. She turned to the railing and poured out the water from the glass. She rinsed out the glass, rinsed out the straw. She leaned over Ezinne once more, having poured new water from the jerrycan into the glass. She began again to blow.

  That second round, the water grew even cloudier than the first, and the particles were larger, and had multiplied. The dibia inspected them again and announced that in addition to the sand and fish scale, there were now small bits of tree bark and red plastic in the water.

  Nneka and Chibuzo stood more alarmed than before. Ezinne sat startled; tears rolled down her cheeks. No-one spoke. The dibia began the third round.

  In the rounds that followed, the water grew decreasingly cloudy. By the sixth round, even with all her blowing, the water remained clean and clear.

  The dibia finished by dabbing some more healing oil on Ezinne’s forehead, and face, and neck. She collected her payment. For three hundred additional naira, she gave Ezinne an unopened bottle of oil, which, she said, if used daily, would ward off any further curses of the enchanted.

  Ezinne stood up. Chibuzo wrapped his arm around her. She leaned, a bit hesitantly, into him. They walked that way to the car. Nneka trailed behind, a weak but hopeful smile on her face.

  It was noon by the time they got back home. The sun was high in the sky and painted the tips of the trees and the rooftops a bright yellow. Chibuzo again wrapped his arm around Ezinne’s waist and escorted her into the house.

  They were eating lunch—garri and soup, which the housegirls had prepared—when Nneka announced that they should host the dinner. Tonight, she said, because why waste any time? Her eyes were bright with excitement, the eyes of a woman with a plan.

  At first Chibuzo was quite in disagreement, because he could see how upset the healing had made Ezinne. But then he reasoned that the dinner—the company and socialization that came with it—would help to take Ezinne’s mind off all that had transpired on the dibia’s veranda. And, by the end of the night, if the dinner was a success, Ezinne would be feeling less upset and perhaps even eager to get to work as far as the conception of the child was concerned. What with all the safety measures having been taken—the healing and then the precautionary dinner—he could see no reason why she wouldn’t be eager. He said all this as they sat at the table. Nneka nodded fervently. Ezinne looked down despairingly into her bowl of soup.

  And so it was set. Chibuzo sent the two housegirls to invite all the residents of their Rumuola neighbourhood. As it was a Saturday, chances were that many of the residents would be home, lounging around. Evening was still six or seven hours away, more than enough time to do all the inviting, and just enough time to prepare the meal.

  As far as the preparations went, he himself set out to the market down the road from their house. There he purchased several hens to be used for the meal. He delivered the hens to Ezinne and Nneka in the kitchen. He had done his duty. Ezinne and Nneka, along with the housegirls, would do the rest.

  Before the meal, Chibuzo had come into the kitchen to take a look at the food. Rice filled two large pots almost to the brim. Meat filled the other two pots, the feet of the hens sticking out of the red stew like leafless branches from the ground. Chibuzo inhaled deeply, smiled, patted Ezinne on the back. This was his way of letting her know how pleased he was with the food.

  They dressed quickly, Chibuzo in his gold-trimmed agbada, Nneka in her lace blouse and aso oke wrappers. Ezinne wore a straight-cut brocade gown, out of which Nneka insisted she change, because the dress was too plain, she said. But the guests arrived promptly, and Ezinne was spared the change.

  The guests strolled into the house dressed more in the fashion of Chibuzo and Nneka—in fancy attire. The housegirls let them in, but it was Ezinne who showed them the way to the table, where Chibuzo and Nneka were seated and eager to regale.

  It was a struggle for Ezinne to keep the smile on her face. She wanted nothing more than to escape, to sneak into the bedroom and drift into sleep.

  But it was her duty to serve the meal, and so she did, recruiting the help of the housegirls only where the distribution of the plates was concerned.

  Now Chibuzo, standing by the door, bids goodbye to the guests. As they file out, he thinks how successful the dinner was. The lids of the pots lie idle on the countertop, and the pots themselves are on the stove, empty, or nearly so—all that remains in them are a few grains of rice and what might amount to a few teaspoons of stew. He thinks of the dinner’s success, but mostly he is impatient for the guests to leave.

  Nneka stands at her son-in-law’s side, leaning on the door, ushering the guests out with a smile. It is not the kind of smile that would be expected of her—it is, rather, the kind that would be expected of Ezinne: a forced smile. The reason for this change in Nneka is that she is no longer in the mood to regale. She is now impatient for the guests to leave, for the same reason that Chibuzo is impatient too: because Ezinne has disappeared, and they will have to hurry the guests off if Chibuzo is to stand a chance of making it to Ezinne in time.

  When the last guest is gone, Chibuzo leans on the door for a moment, exhales loudly. Nneka pats him swiftly on the shoulder, and just as swiftly, he is off.

  In the room, it is dark, but there is a little light coming from the window, so that Chibuzo can just make out the outline of Ezinne’s body on the bed.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, light-heartedly, as he enters. He swings the door behind him to shut it, but the door does not exactly close. There is a small gap where it does not quite meet the frame. He does not notice this.

  He takes a seat on her side of the bed, the side closest to the door. Ezinne moves a little to make room for him. She is lying on her stomach, her arms folded beneath her face. She turns to look at him.

  ‘Long day,’ he says, like a sigh, moving his hand up and down her back.

  ‘Yes, very long day,’ she says. ‘I’m tired.’

  He laughs a little, awkwardly. She can hear the unease in his laughter.

  He gets into bed with her, fully clothed, presses his body hard against hers. His hands make their way to her hips. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Makes sense that you’d be tired.’ He pauses. ‘But you can’t be too tired yet,’ he says. ‘There’s one more thing to do.’ He laughs again, softly.

  She turns her head away from him, struggles free from him a little. ‘Not now,’ she says. ‘Not tonight.’ She says it boldly, though from the tension in his body she speculates that it is a losing battle.

  And of course she is right.

  ‘Yes, tonight,’ he says. His voice is gravelly and firm.

  She closes her eyes, but she can still see him in her mind’s eye. She sees his square jaw. It is taut, stiff. She sees his mouth rounded with determination. She sees his arms underneath the shirt that he is wearing. They are slender, almost scrawny, but she knows that there is strength in them—more strength than their size suggests. She knows this strength for herself, and so she moves a little farther from him. ‘Please, Chibuzo,’ she says. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘But we need to try,’ he says. ‘You know, I’m a patient man, but my patience is running out. How do you think this is maki
ng me look? A man like me, of my status, and yet with no child to show for it.’ He pauses. Softer, he says, almost pleading, ‘We need a child, not even a son. A girl is fine. We need a child, or this marriage is null.’

  With that, he nudges her to turn around. First he holds her face in his hands and places kisses on her forehead, on her cheeks, on the tip of her nose, on her lips. Then his hands make their way to her thighs. He lifts the skirt of her nightgown gently. He strokes her, whispers to her to relax, and she does.

  Soon, she hears the unzipping of his trousers. He climbs on top of her. She tenses up, and somehow he feels it. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘It’s okay.’ He strokes her face with one hand.

  She relaxes again. ‘Okay,’ she says.

  There are tears in her eyes by now, but she blinks them away. She allows him to continue. ‘Okay,’ she says again, but as he enters her, there is the pain, sharp and as wilful as ever before. She moans, but he enters anyway. He thrusts himself into and out of her, and she continues to moan, louder and louder. ‘Please!’ she finally screams, but he doesn’t seem to hear. She tries again. ‘Chibuzo, please stop!’

  He thrusts. He thinks of the dibia, her cleansing of Ezinne. He thinks of the dinner, the way the guests ate gratefully, the well-wishes they gave as they left. He feels elated, optimistic. It is dark in the room, but for him there is light.

  ‘Please,’ she says again.

  He hears her moaning, her cries, but he hears it softer than it has been in the past—softer in the midst of all that radiance.

  Please.

  He takes in all the pleading, but what he hears are gentle sounds of pleasure, not at all sounds of pain. He does not hear the ‘stop’ that comes after the ‘please’. He thrusts, with the desire to gratify, and all the while he is envisioning the future: he sees himself holding his son or his daughter, a baby. He is holding the baby when its umbilical cord stump falls off. He is holding the baby all the days when the baby teethes. And when the child is old enough, he carries the child on his shoulders. He watches as the child climbs the orange and guava trees outside in their backyard, as the child plucks the hibiscus flowers from the bushes in the compound, as the child picks pebbles to play with its catapult. He sees the day the child begins to go to school—the uniform the child wears, green and white, like the colour of the flag. The child is happy. And Chibuzo, imagining the child, is happy too.