Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
her voice as if doing so would exclude Odenigbo. She would not tell her mother that they had decided to get married. Not yet.
‘Anyway,’ her mother said, ‘your father and I have finalized our plans. We have paid somebody who will take us to Cameroon and get us on a flight from there to London. We will use our Nigerian passports; the Cameroonians will not give us trouble. It was not easy but it is done. We paid for four places.’ Her mother patted her headgear, as if to ensure that it was still there. ‘Your father has gone to Port Harcourt to tell Kainene.’
Olanna felt pity at the plea in her mother’s eyes. Her mother knew she would not run away to England with them, and that Kainene would not either. But it was so like her to try, to make this doomed, grasping, well-meaning effort.
‘You know I won’t go,’ she said gently, wanting to reach out and touch her mother’s perfect skin. ‘But you and Dad should go, if it will make you feel safer. I’ll stay with Odenigbo and Baby. We’ll be fine. We are going to Umuahia in a few weeks for Odenigbo to start work at the directorate.’ Olanna paused. She wanted to say that they would have their wedding in Umuahia but instead she said, ‘As soon as Nsukka is recovered, we’ll go back.’
‘But what if Nsukka is not recovered? What if this war drags on and on?’
‘It won’t.’
‘How can I leave my children and run to safety?’
But Olanna knew she could and she would. ‘We’ll be fine, Mum.’
Her mother wiped her eyes with her palm, although there were no tears, before she brought out an airmail envelope from her handbag. ‘It’s a letter from Mohammed. Somebody brought it to Umunnachi. Apparently he heard Nsukka was evacuated and he thought you had come to Umunnachi. Sorry; I had to open it, to make sure there was nothing dangerous in it.’
‘Nothing dangerous?’ Olanna asked. ‘Gini? What are you talking about, Mum?’
‘Who knows? Is he not the enemy now?’
Olanna shook her head. She was pleased her mother would be going abroad and she would not have to deal with her until this war was over. She wanted to wait until her mother left before she read the letter, so that her mother would not search her face for an expression, but she could not help pulling out the single sheet of paper right away. Mohammed’s handwriting was like him – patrician and long, with elegant flourishes. He wanted to know if she was well. He gave her phone numbers to call if she needed help. He thought the war was senseless and hoped it would end soon. He loved her.
‘Thank God you didn’t marry him,’ her mother said, watching her fold the letter. ‘Can you imagine what a situation you would have been in now? O di egwu!’
Olanna said nothing. Her mother left soon afterwards; she did not want to come inside and see Odenigbo. ‘You can still change your mind, nne, the four places are paid for,’ she said, climbing into the car, holding tightly to her jewellery-filled bag. Olanna waved until the Land Rover drove past the compound gates.
It surprised her, how many men and women were in Abba, gathered at the square for the meeting, crowded around the ancient udala tree. Odenigbo had told her how, as children, he and the others, sent to sweep the village square in the mornings, would instead spend most of their time fighting over the fallen udala fruit. They could not climb the tree or pluck the fruit because it was taboo; udala belonged to the spirits. She looked up at the tree as the elders addressed the crowd and imagined Odenigbo here as a boy, looking up as she was doing, hoping to see the shadowy outline of a spirit. Had he been energetic like Baby? Probably, perhaps more so than Baby
‘Abba, kwenu!’ the dibia Nwafor Agbada said, the man whose medicine was said to be the strongest in these parts.
‘Yaa!’ everyone said.
‘Abba, kwezuenu!’
‘Yaa!’
‘Abba has never been defeated by anyone. I said that Abba has never been defeated.’ His voice was strong. He had only a few cotton-ball tufts of hair on his head, and his staff shook as he plunged it into the ground. ‘We do not look for quarrels, but when your quarrel finds us, we will crush you. We fought Ukwulu and Ukpo and finished them. My father never told me about a war where we were defeated, and his father never told him either. We will never run from our homeland. Our fathers forbid it. We will never run from our own land!’
The crowd cheered. So did Olanna. She remembered the pro-Independence rallies at university; mass movements always made her feel empowered, the thought that for a thin slice of time all these people were united by a single possibility.
She told Odenigbo about Mohammed’s letter as they walked back from the village square after the meeting. ‘He must be so upset about all of this. I can’t imagine how he must be feeling.’
‘How can you say that?’ Odenigbo said.
She slowed her pace and turned to him, startled. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘What’s the matter is that you are saying that a bloody Muslim Hausa man is upset! He is complicit, absolutely complicit, in everything that happened to our people, so how can you say he is upset?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘Am I joking? How can you sound this way after seeing what they did in Kano? Can you imagine what must have happened to Arize? They raped pregnant women before they cut them up!’
Olanna recoiled. She tripped on a stone in her path. She could not believe he had brought Arize up like that, cheapened Arize’s memory in order to make a point in a spurious argument. Anger froze her insides. She started to walk fast, past Odenigbo, and when she got home, she lay down in the guest room and was not surprised when the Dark Swoop descended. She struggled to pull it off, to breathe, and finally lay in bed exhausted. She didn’t speak to Odenigbo the next day. Or the next. And, when her mother’s cousin, Uncle Osita, came from Umunnachi to tell her that she was being summoned to a meeting at her grandfather’s compound, she did not tell Odenigbo about it. She simply asked Ugwu to get Baby ready and, after Odenigbo left for a meeting, she drove off with them in his car.
She thought of the way Odenigbo had said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ with an edge of impatience, as if he felt entitled to her forgiveness. He must think that if she could be forgiving of what happened around Baby’s birth, she could be forgiving of anything. She resented that. Maybe it was why she didn’t tell him she was going to Umunnachi. Or maybe it was because she knew why she was being summoned to Umunnachi and did not want to talk about it with Odenigbo.
She drove over the bumpy dirt roads lined by tall grasses and thought how interesting it was, that villagers could tell you something like Umunnachi summons you, as though Umunnachi were a person rather than a town. It was raining. The roads were marshy. She glanced at the looming three storeys of her parents’ country home as she drove past it; they would be in Cameroon by now, or perhaps already in London or in Paris, reading the newspapers to learn what was happening back home. She parked in front of her grandfather’s house, near the thatch fence. Her tyres skidded a little in the clumpy soil. After Ugwu and Baby had come out of the car, she sat still for a while, watching the raindrops slide down the windscreen. Her chest felt tight and she needed some time to breathe slowly to free it, to free herself so she could answer the questions the elders would present to her at the meeting. They would be gentle, formal, everyone gathered in the musty living room: her elderly uncles and granduncles, their wives, some cousins, and perhaps a baby tied on someone’s back.
She would speak in a clear voice and look down at the white chalk lines all over the floor, some faded from years, some simple, straight lines, others elaborate curves, still others plain initials. As a child, she had watched her grandfather present the piece of nzu to his guests, and she would follow every movement of the men as they drew on the floor and the women as they smeared it on their faces and, sometimes, even nibbled it. Once, when her grandfather stepped out, Olanna had chewed the piece of chalk too and still remembered the dulling potash taste.