Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
‘He made a mistake,’ Olanna said, and then wished she hadn’t because she didn’t want Kainene to think she was excusing Odenigbo.
‘Isn’t it against the tenets of socialism, though, impregnating people of the lower classes?’ Kainene asked.
‘I’ll let you sleep.’
There was a slight pause, before Kainene said, with an amused tone, ‘Ngwanu. Good night.’
Olanna put the phone down. She should have known that Richard would not tell Kainene; his own relationship with her might not survive it. And perhaps it was best that he would no longer visit in the evenings.
Amala had a baby girl. It was a Saturday and Olanna was making banana fritters with Ugwu in the kitchen, and when the doorbell rang, she knew right away that a message had come from Mama.
Odenigbo came to the kitchen door, his hands held behind his back. ‘O mu nwanyi,’ he said quietly. ‘She had a girl. Yesterday.’
Olanna did not look up from the bowl smeared with mashed bananas because she did not want him to see her face. She did not know how it would look, if it could capture the cruel mix of emotions she felt, the desire to cry and slap him and steel herself all at once.
‘We should go to Enugu this afternoon to see that everything is fine,’ she said briskly, and stood up. ‘Ugwu, please finish.’
‘Yes, mah.’ Ugwu was watching her; she felt the responsibility of an actress whose family members expected the best performance.
‘Thank you, nkem,’ Odenigbo said. He placed his arm around her, but she shrugged it off.
‘Let me take a quick bath.’
In the car, they were silent. He looked across at her often, as if he wanted to say something but did not know how to begin. She kept her eyes straight ahead and glanced at him only once, at the tentative way he held the steering wheel. She felt morally superior to him. Perhaps it was unearned and false, to think she was better than he was, but it was the only way she could keep her disparate emotions together, now that his child with a stranger was born.
He finally spoke as he parked in front of the hospital.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
Olanna opened the car door. ‘About my cousin Arize. She hasn’t even been married a year and she is desperate to get pregnant.’
Odenigbo said nothing. Mama met them at the entrance of the maternity ward. Olanna had expected Mama to dance and look at her with mocking eyes, but the lined face was dour, the smile as she hugged Odenigbo was strained. Chemical hospital smells were thick in the air.
‘Mama, kedu?’ Olanna asked. She wanted to seem in control, to determine how things would proceed.
‘I am well,’ Mama said.
‘Where is the baby?’
Mama looked surprised by her briskness. ‘In the newborn ward.’
‘Let’s see Amala first,’ Olanna said.
Mama led them to a cubicle. The bed was covered in a yellowed sheet and Amala lay on it with her face to the wall. Olanna pulled her eyes away from the slight swell of her belly; it was newly unbearable, the thought that Odenigbo’s baby had been in that body. She focused on the biscuits, glucose tin, and glass of water on the side table.
‘Amala, they have come,’ Mama said.
‘Good afternoon, nno,’ Amala said, without turning to face them.
‘How are you?’ Odenigbo and Olanna asked, almost at the same time.
Amala mumbled a response. Her face was still to the wall. In the silence that followed, Olanna heard quick footfalls on the corridor outside. She had known this was coming for months now, and yet looking at Amala she felt an ashy hollowness. A part of her had hoped this day would never arrive.
‘Let’s see the baby,’ she said. As she and Odenigbo turned to leave, she noticed that Amala did not turn, did not move, did not do anything to show she had heard.
At the newborn ward a nurse asked them to wait on one of the benches that lined the wall. Olanna could see, through the louvres, the many cots and many crying infants, and she imagined that the nurse would be confused and would bring the wrong baby. But it was the right baby; the full head of softly curled black hair and the dark skin and the widely spaced eyes were unmistakable. Only two days old, and she looked like Odenigbo.
The nurse made to give Olanna the baby, wrapped in a white, woolly blanket, but she gestured to Odenigbo. ‘Let her father hold her.’
‘You know her mother has refused to touch her,’ the nurse said, as she handed the baby to Odenigbo.
‘What?’ Olanna asked.
‘She has not touched her at all. We are using a wet nurse.’
Olanna glanced at Odenigbo, holding the baby with his arms outstretched as if he needed some distance. The nurse was about to say something else when a young couple came in and she hurried over to them.
‘Mama just told me,’ Odenigbo said. ‘She said Amala won’t hold the baby.’
Olanna said nothing.
‘I should go and see to the bill,’ he said. He sounded apologetic.
She held out her arms and as soon as he handed her the baby, the high-pitched crying began. From across the room, the nurse and the couple watched and Olanna was certain that they could tell that she did not know what to do with a howling infant in her arms, that she was incapable of getting pregnant.
‘Shush, shush, o zugo,’ she said, feeling a little theatrical. But the tiny mouth remained open and twisted, and the crying was so shrill, she wondered if it hurt the tiny body. Olanna fit her small finger in the baby’s fist. Slowly the crying stopped but the little mouth remained open, showing pink gums, and the round eyes scrunched up and peered at her. Olanna laughed. The nurse walked across.
‘Time to take her in,’ she said. ‘How many do you have?’
‘I don’t have children,’ Olanna said, pleased that the nurse had assumed that she did.
Odenigbo came back and they walked to Amala’s cubicle, where Mama sat by the bedside, holding a covered enamel bowl. ‘Amala has refused to eat,’ she said. ‘Gwakwa ya. Tell her to eat.’
Olanna sensed Odenigbo’s discomfort before he spoke in a voice that was too loud. ‘You should eat, Amala.’
Amala mumbled something. Finally, she turned her face towards them and Olanna looked at her: a plain village girl curled up on the bed as if she were cringing from one more furious blow from life. She never once looked at Odenigbo. What she must feel for him was an awed fear. Whether or not Mama had told her to go to his room, she had not said no to Odenigbo because she had not even considered that she could say no. Odenigbo made a drunken pass and she submitted willingly and promptly: He was the master, he spoke English, he had a car. It was the way it should be.
‘Did you hear what my son said?’ Mama asked. ‘He said you should eat.’
‘I heard, Mama.’ Amala sat up and took the enamel plate, her eyes focused on the floor. Olanna was watching her. Perhaps it was hate she felt for Odenigbo. How much did one know of the true feelings of those who did not have a voice? Olanna moved closer to Amala, but she was unsure what she wanted to say and so she picked up the tin of glucose, examined it, and placed it back. Mama and Odenigbo had stepped outside.
‘We are leaving,’ Olanna said.
‘Go well,’ Amala said.
Olanna wanted to say something to her but she could not find the words, so she patted Amala’s shoulder and left the cubicle. Odenigbo and Mama were talking beside a water tank, for so long that mosquitoes began