Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
drink last and wasted long minutes drying his hands on a dishcloth before he opened the door to let her in. He worried that she would marry Master and bring her Yoruba-speaking housegirl into the house and destroy his herb garden and tell him what he could and could not cook. Until he heard Master and Okeoma talking.
‘She did not look as if she wanted to go home today,’ Okeoma said. ‘Nwoke m, are you sure you are not planning to do something with her?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
‘If you did, nobody in London would know.’
‘Look, look – ’
‘I know you’re not interested in her like that, but what still puzzles me is what these women see in you.’
Okeoma laughed and Ugwu was relieved. He did not want Miss Adebayo – or any woman – coming in to intrude and disrupt their lives. Some evenings, when the visitors left early, he would sit on the floor of the living room and listen to Master talk. Master mostly talked about things Ugwu did not understand, as if the brandy made him forget that Ugwu was not one of his visitors. But it didn’t matter. All Ugwu needed was the deep voice, the melody of the English-inflected Igbo, the glint of the thick eyeglasses.
He had been with Master for four months when Master told him, ‘A special woman is coming for the weekend. Very special. You make sure the house is clean. I’ll order the food from the staff club.’
‘But, sah, I can cook,’ Ugwu said, with a sad premonition.
‘She’s just come back from London, my good man, and she likes her rice a certain way. Fried rice, I think. I’m not sure you could make something suitable.’ Master turned to walk away.
‘I can make that, sah,’ Ugwu said quickly, although he had no idea what fried rice was. ‘Let me make the rice, and you get the chicken from the staff club.’
‘Artful negotiation,’ Master said in English. ‘All right, then. You make the rice.’
‘Yes, sah,’ Ugwu said. Later, he cleaned the rooms and scrubbed the toilet carefully, as he always did, but Master looked at them and said they were not clean enough and went out and bought another jar of Vim powder and asked, sharply, why Ugwu didn’t clean the spaces between the tiles. Ugwu cleaned them again. He scrubbed until sweat crawled down the sides of his face, until his arm ached. And on Saturday, he bristled as he cooked. Master had never complained about his work before. It was this woman’s fault, this woman that Master considered too special even for him to cook for. Just come back from London, indeed.
When the doorbell rang, he muttered a curse under his breath about her stomach swelling from eating faeces. He heard Master’s raised voice, excited and childlike, followed by a long silence and he imagined their hug, and her ugly body pressed to Master’s. Then he heard her voice. He stood still. He had always thought that Master’s English could not be compared to anybody’s, not Professor Ezeka, whose English one could hardly hear, or Okeoma, who spoke English as if he were speaking Igbo, with the same cadences and pauses, or Patel, whose English was a faded lilt. Not even the white man Professor Lehman, with his words forced out through his nose, sounded as dignified as Master. Master’s English was music, but what Ugwu was hearing now, from this woman, was magic. Here was a superior tongue, a luminous language, the kind of English he heard on Master’s radio, rolling out with clipped precision. It reminded him of slicing a yam with a newly sharpened knife, the easy perfection in every slice.
‘Ugwu!’ Master called. ‘Bring Coke!’
Ugwu walked out to the living room. She smelt of coconuts. He greeted her, his ‘Good afternoon’ a mumble, his eyes on the floor.
‘Kedu?’ she asked.
‘I’m well, mah.’ He still did not look at her. As he uncorked the bottle, she laughed at something Master said. Ugwu was about to pour the cold Coke into her glass when she touched his hand and said, ‘Rapuba, don’t worry about that.’
Her hand was lightly moist. ‘Yes, mah.’
‘Your master has told me how well you take care of him, Ugwu,’ she said. Her Igbo words were softer than her English, and he was disappointed at how easily they came out. He wished she would stumble in her Igbo; he had not expected English that perfect to sit beside equally perfect Igbo.
‘Yes, mah,’ he mumbled. His eyes were still focused on the floor.
‘What have you cooked us, my good man?’ Master asked, as if he did not know. He sounded annoyingly jaunty.
‘I serve now, sah,’ Ugwu said, in English, and then wished he had said I am serving now, because it sounded better, because it would impress her more. As he set the table, he kept from glancing at the living room, although he could hear her laughter and Master’s voice, with its irritating new timbre.
He finally looked at her as she and Master sat down at the table.
Her oval face was smooth like an egg, the lush colour of rain-drenched earth, and her eyes were large and slanted and she looked like she was not supposed to be walking and talking like everyone else; she should be in a glass case like the one in Master’s study, where people could admire her curvy, fleshy body, where she would be preserved untainted. Her hair was long; each of the plaits that hung down to her neck ended in a soft fuzz. She smiled easily; her teeth were the same bright white of her eyes. He did not know how long he stood staring at her until Master said, ‘Ugwu usually does a lot better than this. He makes a fantastic stew.’
‘It’s quite tasteless, which is better than bad-tasting, of course,’ she said, and smiled at Master before turning to Ugwu. ‘I’ll show you how to cook rice properly, Ugwu, without using so much oil.’
‘Yes, mah,’ Ugwu said. He had invented what he imagined was fried rice, frying the rice in groundnut oil, and had half-hoped it would send them both to the toilet in a hurry. Now, though, he wanted to cook a perfect meal, a savoury jollof rice or his special stew with arigbe, to show her how well he could cook. He delayed washing up so that the running water would not drown out her voice. When he served them tea, he took his time rearranging the biscuits on the saucer so that he could linger and listen to her, until Master said, ‘That’s quite all right, my good man.’ Her name was Olanna. But Master said it only once; he mostly called her nkem, my own. They talked about the quarrel between the Sardauna and the premier of the Western Region, and then Master said something about waiting until she moved to Nsukka and how it was only a few weeks away after all. Ugwu held his breath to make sure he had heard clearly. Master was laughing now, saying, ‘But we will live here together, nkem, and you can keep the Elias Avenue flat as well.’
She would move to Nsukka. She would live in this house. Ugwu walked away from the door and stared at the pot on the stove. His life would change. He would learn to cook fried rice and he would have to use less oil and he would take orders from her. He felt sad, and yet his sadness was incomplete; he felt expectant, too, an excitement he did not entirely understand.
That evening, he was washing Master’s linen in the backyard, near the lemon tree, when he looked up from the basin of soapy water and saw her standing by the back door, watching him. At first, he was sure it was his imagination, because the people he thought the most about often appeared to him in visions. He had imaginary conversations with Anulika all the time, and, right after he touched himself at night, Nnesinachi would appear briefly with a mysterious smile on her face. But Olanna was really at the door. She was walking across the yard towards him. She had only a wrapper tied around her chest, and as she walked, he imagined that she was a yellow cashew, shapely and ripe.
‘Mah? You want anything?’ he asked. He knew that if he reached out and touched her face, it would feel like butter, the kind Master unwrapped from a paper packet and spread on his bread.
‘Let me help you with that.’ She pointed at the bedsheet he was rinsing, and slowly he took the dripping sheet out. She held one end and moved back. ‘Turn yours that way,’ she said.
He twisted his end of the sheet