Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
‘This is why I came. They said she is controlling my son,’ Master’s mother said, stirring the soup. ‘No wonder my son has not married while his mates are counting how many children they have. She has used her witchcraft to hold him. I heard her father came from a family of lazy beggars in Umunnachi until he got a job as a tax collector and stole from hard-working people. Now he has opened many businesses and is walking around in Lagos and answering a Big Man. Her mother is no better. What woman brings another person to breastfeed her own children when she herself is alive and well? Is that normal, gbo, Amala?’
‘No, Mama.’ Amala’s eyes focused on the floor as if she were tracing patterns on it.
‘I heard that all the time she was growing up, it was servants who wiped her ike when she finished shitting. And on top of it, her parents sent her to university. Why? Too much schooling ruins a woman; everyone knows that. It gives a woman a big head and she will start to insult her husband. What kind of wife will that be?’ Master’s mother raised one edge of her wrapper to wipe the sweat from her brow. ‘These girls that go to university follow men around until their bodies are useless. Nobody knows if she can have children. Do you know? Does anyone know?’
‘No, Mama,’ Amala said.
‘Does anyone know, Ugwu?’
Ugwu placed a plate down noisily and pretended as if he had not heard her. She came over and patted his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, my son will find a good woman and he will not send you away after he marries.’
Perhaps agreeing with the woman would make her exhaust herself quicker and shut her mouth. ‘Yes, Mama,’ he said.
‘I know how hard my son worked to get where he is. All that is not to be wasted on a loose woman.’
‘No, Mama.’
‘I do not mind where the woman my son will marry comes from. I am not like those mothers who want to find wives for their sons only from their own hamlet. But I do not want a Wawa woman, and none of those Imo or Aro women, of course; their dialects are so strange I wonder who told them that we are all the same Igbo people.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘I will not let this witch control him. She will not succeed. I will consult the dibia Nwafor Agbada when I return home; the man’s medicine is famous in our parts.’
Ugwu stopped. He knew many stories of people who had used medicine from the dibia: the childless first wife who tied up the second wife’s womb, the woman who made a neighbour’s prosperous son go mad, the man who killed his brother because of a land quarrel. Perhaps Master’s mother would tie up Olanna’s womb or cripple her or, most frightening of all, kill her.
‘I am coming, Mama. My master sent me to the kiosk,’ Ugwu said, and hurried out through the back door before she said anything. He had to tell Master. He had been to Master’s office only once, driven in Olanna’s car when she stopped by to pick up something, but he was sure he could find it. It was near the zoo and his class had visited the zoo recently, walking in a single file led by Mrs Oguike, and he had brought up the rear because he was the tallest.
At the corner of Mbanefo Street, he saw Master’s car coming towards him. It stopped.
‘This isn’t the way to the market, is it, my good man?’ Master asked.
‘No, sah. I was coming to your office.’
‘Has my mother arrived?’
‘Yes, sah. Sah, something happened.’
‘What?’
Ugwu told Master about the afternoon, quickly recounting the words of both women, and finished with what was the most horrible of all: ‘Mama said she will go to the dibia, sah.’
‘What rubbish,’ Master said. ‘Ngwa, get into the car. You might as well drive back home with me.’
Ugwu was shocked that Master was not shocked, did not understand the gravity of the situation, and so he added, ‘It was very bad, sah. Very bad. Mama nearly slapped my madam.’
‘What? She slapped Olanna?’ Master asked.
‘No, sah.’ Ugwu paused; perhaps he had gone too far with the suggestion. ‘But it looked as if she wanted to slap my madam.’
Master’s face relaxed. ‘The woman has never been very reasonable, at any rate,’ he said, in English, shaking his head. ‘Get in, let’s go.’
But Ugwu did not want to get into the car. He wanted Master to turn around and go to Olanna’s flat right away. His life was organized, secure, and Master’s mother would have to be stopped from disrupting things; the first step was for Master to go and placate Olanna.
‘Get into the car,’ Master said again, reaching across the front seat to make sure the door was unlocked.
‘But, sah. I thought you are going to see my madam.’
‘Get in, you ignoramus!’
Ugwu opened the door and climbed in, and Master drove back to Odim Street.
Olanna looked at Odenigbo through the glass for a while before she opened the door. She closed her eyes as he walked in, as if doing so would deny her the pleasure that the scent of his Old Spice always brought. He was dressed for tennis in the white shorts she had often teased him were too tight around his buttocks.
‘I was talking to my mother or I would have come earlier,’ he said. He pressed his lips to hers and gestured to the old boubou she was wearing. ‘Aren’t you coming to the club?’
‘I was cooking.’
‘Ugwu told me what happened. I’m so sorry my mother acted that way.’
‘I just had to leave … your house.’ Olanna faltered. She had wanted to say our house.
‘You didn’t have to, nkem. You should have ignored her, really.’ He placed a copy of Drum magazine down on the table and began pacing the room. ‘I’ve decided to talk to Dr Okoro about the Labour Strike. It’s unacceptable that Balewa and his cronies should completely reject their demands. Just unacceptable. We have to show support. We can’t allow ourselves to become disconnected.’
‘Your mother made a scene.’
‘You’re angry.’ Odenigbo looked puzzled. He sat down in the armchair, and for the first time she noticed how much space there was between the furniture, how sparse her flat was, how unlived in. Her things were in his house; her favourite books were in the shelves in his study. ‘Nkem, I didn’t know you’d take this so seriously. You can see that my mother doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s just a village woman. She’s trying to make her way in a new world with skills that are better suited for the old one.’ Odenigbo got up and moved closer to take her in his arms, but Olanna turned and walked into the kitchen.
‘You never talk about your mother,’ she said. ‘You’ve never asked me to come to Abba with you to visit her.’
‘Oh, stop it, nkem. It’s not as if I go that often to see her, and I did ask you the last time but you were going to Lagos.’
She walked over to the stove and ran a sponge on the warm surface, over and over, her back to Odenigbo. She felt as if she had somehow failed him and herself by allowing his mother’s behaviour to upset her. She should be above it; she should shrug it off as the ranting of a village woman; she should not keep thinking of all the retorts she could have made instead of just standing mutely in that kitchen. But she was upset, and made even more so by Odenigbo’s expression, as if he could not believe she was not quite as high-minded as he had thought. He was making her feel small and absurdly petulant and, worse yet, she suspected