Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
it well?’ Ugwu asked. Perhaps the woman was a spirit person and had come here to perform rituals with her fellow ogbanje.
Amala said nothing for a while; she spoke so seldom that her voice always surprised Ugwu by how childishly high it was. ‘Pepper can remove pregnancy,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘If you eat plenty of hot peppers, they will remove pregnancy.’ She was huddled in the mud like a pathetic animal, chewing slowly, tears streaming down her face.
‘Peppers cannot do that,’ Ugwu said. Yet he hoped that she was right, that peppers would indeed abort the pregnancy and his life would return to what it was before: Olanna and Master securely together.
‘If you eat enough, they can,’ she insisted, and reached out to pluck another one.
Ugwu did not want her to finish the peppers he so carefully cultivated for his stews, but if she was right about what the peppers could do, perhaps it was worth it to let her be. Her face was slick with the moisture of tears and mucus, and once in a while she opened her mouth and extended her pepper-burned tongue to pant like a dog. He wanted to ask why she had gone along with it if she did not want the baby. She had gone to Master’s room herself, after all, and she must have known about Mama’s plan. But he did not ask; he did not want her friendship. He turned and went back inside.
Days after Amala left, Olanna visited. She sat upright on the sofa, legs crossed like an unfamiliar guest, and refused the chin-chin Ugwu brought on a saucer.
‘Take it back to the kitchen,’ she said to Ugwu, at the same time as Master said, ‘Leave it on the table.’
Ugwu stood uncertainly, holding the saucer.
‘Take it back to the kitchen, then!’ Master snapped, as if Ugwu were somehow responsible for the tension that had settled in the room. Ugwu did not shut the kitchen door, so that he could stand by it and listen, but he might as well have closed it because Olanna’s raised voice was audible enough. ‘It’s you and not your mother. It happened because you let it happen! You must take responsibility!’
It startled Ugwu, how that soft voice could change to something so fierce.
‘I am not a philandering man, and you know that. This would not have happened if my mother didn’t have a hand!’ Master should have lowered his voice; he should know very well that a beggar did not shout.
‘Did your mother pull out your penis and insert it into Amala as well?’ Olanna asked.
Ugwu felt the sudden rumbling rush in his stomach and he ran out to the toilet in the Boys’ Quarters. When he came out, he saw Olanna standing by the lemon tree. He searched her face to see how the conversation had ended, if it had ended; why she was out here. But he could make nothing of her face. There were tight lines around her mouth and a sleek confidence to the way she stood, wearing a new wig that made her seem much taller.
‘You want anything, mah?’ he asked.
She walked over to look at the anara plants. ‘These look very well. Did you use fertilizer?’
‘Yes, mah. From Jomo.’
‘And on the peppers?’
‘Yes, mah.’
She turned to walk away. It was incongruous to see her there in her black shoes and her knee-length dress. She, who was always in a wrapper or a housecoat in the garden.
‘Mah?’
She turned.
‘I have one uncle who is trading in the North. People have been jealous of him because he is doing well. One day he washed his clothes, and when he brought them in from the sun, he saw that somebody had cut off a piece of his shirtsleeve.’
Olanna was watching him; there was something in her expression that made him realize she would not be patient enough to listen much longer.
‘The person who cut it used it for bad medicine, but it did not work because my uncle burnt the shirt immediately. That day, there were many flies near his hut.’
‘What are you talking about, for heaven’s sake?’ Olanna asked in English. Because she hardly ever spoke English to him, it sounded cold, distancing.
‘Mama used bad medicine on my master, mah. I saw flies in the kitchen. I saw her putting something in his food. Then I saw her rubbing something on Amala’s body, and I know it is the medicine that she used to tempt my master.’
‘Rubbish,’ Olanna said. It came out sounding like a hiss, rubbish, and Ugwu’s stomach tightened. She was different; her skin and clothes were crisper. She bent and flicked away a green aphid that had perched on her dress before she walked away. But she did not go around the house, past Master’s garage to her own car parked in front. Instead she went back into the house. He followed. In the kitchen, he heard her voice from the study, shouting a long string of words that he could not make out and did not want to. Then silence. Then the opening and closing of the bedroom door. He waited for a while before he tiptoed across the corridor and pressed his ear against the wood. She sounded different. He was used to her throaty moans but what he heard now was an outward, gasping ah-ah-ah, as if she was gearing up to erupt, as if Master was pleasing and angering her at the same time and she was waiting to see how much pleasure she could take before she let out the rage. Still, hope surged inside Ugwu. He would cook a perfect jollof rice for their reconciliation meal.
Later, when he heard her car start and saw the glaring headlights near the bush with the white flowers, he thought she was going to collect a few things from her flat. He set two places for dinner but did not serve the food because he wanted to keep it warm in the pot.
Master came into the kitchen. ‘Do you intend to eat alone today, my good man?’
‘I am waiting for madam.’
‘Serve my food, osiso!’
‘Yes, sah,’ Ugwu said. ‘Will madam come again soon, sah?’
‘Serve my food!’ Master repeated.
Olanna stood in Richard’s living room. Its austere emptiness made her nervous; she wished he had pictures or books or Russian dolls that she could look at. There was only a small photo of an Igbo-Ukwu roped pot on the wall, and she was peering at it when Richard came out. The uncertain half smile on his lips softened his face. She sometimes forgot what a handsome man he was, in that fair-haired, blue-eyed sort of way.
She spoke immediately. ‘Hello, Richard.’ Without waiting for his response and the lull that came with greetings, she added, ‘Did you see Kainene last weekend?’
‘No. No, I didn’t.’ His eyes avoided hers, focused on her glossy wig. ‘I was in Lagos. Sir Winston Churchill has died, you see.’
‘What happened was stupid of both of us,’ Olanna said and noticed that his hands were shaking.
Richard nodded. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘Kainene doesn’t forgive easily. It would make no sense at all to tell her.’
‘Of course not.’ Richard paused. ‘You had emotional problems, and I should not have – ’
‘What happened took two, Richard,’ Olanna said, and suddenly felt contempt for his trembling hands and pale shyness and the vulnerabilities he wore so openly knotted at his throat like a tie.
Harrison came in with a tray. ‘I am bringing drinks, sah.’
‘Drinks?’ Richard turned quickly, jerkily, and Olanna was relieved that there was nothing close or he would have knocked it over. ‘Oh, no, really. Would you like something?’
‘I’m just leaving,’