Half of a Yellow Sun (12 page)

“Susan—” he said, and stopped, because there was nothing else to say. He hadn’t known she thought these things of him. He realized how little they had talked, how their relationship had been like an artless flow with little input from them, or at least from him. The relationship had
happened
to him.

“It was all too rushed for you, wasn’t it?” Susan said. She came and stood by him. She had regained her composure; her chin no longer quivered. “You didn’t get a chance to explore, really, to see more of the country like you wanted to; you moved in here and I’ve made you go to these ghastly parties with people who don’t much care about writing and African art and that sort of thing. It must have been so awful for you. I’m terribly sorry, Richard, and I do understand. Of course, you must see a bit of the country. Can I help? I have friends in Enugu and Kaduna.”

Richard took the glass from her, put it down, and took her in his arms. He felt a faint nostalgia at the familiar apple scent of her shampoo. “No, I’ll be all right,” he said.

She didn’t think it was really over, it was clear; she thought he would come back and he said nothing to make her think differently. When the steward in the white apron opened the front door to let him out, Richard was light with relief.

“Bye, sah,” the steward said.

“Goodbye, Okon.” Richard wondered if the inscrutable Okon ever pressed his ear to the door when he and Susan had their glass-breaking rows. He once asked Okon to teach him some simple sentences in Efik, but Susan had stopped it after she found them both in the study, Okon fidgeting as Richard pronounced the words. Okon had looked at Susan with gratitude, as if she had just saved him from a mad white man, and later,
Susan’s tone was mild when she said she understood that Richard didn’t know how things were done. One couldn’t cross certain lines. It was a tone that reminded him of Aunt Elizabeth, of views endorsed with an unapologetic, self-indulgent English decency. Perhaps if he had told Susan about Kainene, she would have used that tone to tell him that she quite understood his need to experiment with a black woman.

Richard saw Okon waving as he drove away. He had the overwhelming urge to sing, except that he was not a singing man. All the other houses on Glover Street were like Susan’s, expansive, hugged by palm trees and beds of languid grass.

The next afternoon, Richard sat up in bed naked, looking down at Kainene. He had just failed her again. “I’m sorry. I think I get overexcited,” he said.

“May I have a cigarette?” she asked. The silky sheet outlined the angular thinness of her naked body.

He lit it for her. She sat up from under the cover, her dark-brown nipples tightening in the cold air-conditioned room, and looked away as she exhaled. “We’ll give it time,” she said. “And there are other ways.”

Richard felt a swift surge of irritation, toward himself for being uselessly limp, toward her for that half-mocking smile and for saying there were other ways, as if he was permanently incapable of doing things the traditional way. He knew what he could do. He knew he could satisfy her. He just needed time. He had begun, though, to think about some herbs, potent manhood herbs he remembered reading about somewhere, which African men took.

“Nsukka is a little patch of dust in the middle of the bush, the cheapest land they could get to build the university on,” Kainene
said. It was startling, how easily she slipped into mundane conversation. “But it should be perfect for your writing, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You might like it and want to stay on.”

“I might.” Richard slid under the covers. “But I’m so pleased you’ll be in Port Harcourt and I won’t have to come all the way to Lagos to see you.”

Kainene said nothing, smoking with steady intakes, and for one terrified moment he wondered if she was going to tell him that it was over when they both left Lagos and that, in Port Harcourt, she would find herself a man capable of
performing
.

“My house will be perfect for our weekends,” she said finally. “It’s monstrous. My father gave it to me last year as a bit of dowry, I think, an enticement for the right sort of man to marry his unattractive daughter. Terribly European when you think of it, since we don’t have dowries, we have bride prices.” She put the cigarette out. She had not finished it. “Olanna said she didn’t want a house. Not that she needs one. Save the houses for the ugly daughter.”

“Don’t say that, Kainene.”

“Don’t say that, Kainene,” Kainene mimicked him. She got up and he wanted to pull her back. But he didn’t; he could not trust his body and could not bear to disappoint her yet again. Sometimes he felt as if he knew nothing about her, as if he would never quite reach her. And yet, other times, lying next to her, he would feel a wholeness, a certainty that he would never need anything else.

“By the way, I’ve asked Olanna to introduce you to her revolutionary lecturer lover,” Kainene said. She pulled her wig off and, with her short hair worn in cornrows, her face looked younger, smaller. “She used to date a Hausa prince, a pleasant bland sort of fellow, but he did not have any of the crazed delusions she has.
This Odenigbo imagines himself to be quite the freedom fighter. He’s a mathematician but he spends all his time writing newspaper articles about his own brand of mishmash African socialism. Olanna adores that. They don’t seem to realize how much of a joke socialism really is.” She put the wig back on and began to brush it; the wavy hair, parted in the middle, fell to her chin. Richard liked the clean lines of her thin body, the sleekness of her raised arm.

“Socialism could very well work in Nigeria if done right, I think,” he said. “It’s really about economic justice, isn’t it?”

Kainene snorted. “Socialism would never work for the Igbo.” She held the brush suspended in midair. “Ogbenyealu is a common name for girls and you know what it means? ‘Not to Be Married to a Poor Man.’ To stamp that on a child at birth is capitalism at its best.”

Richard laughed, and he was even more amused because she did not laugh; she simply went back to brushing her hair. He thought about the next time he would laugh with her and then the next. He found himself often thinking about the future, even before the present was over.

He got up and felt shy when she glanced at his naked body. Perhaps she was expressionless only to hide her disgust. He pulled on his underwear and buttoned his shirt hurriedly.

“I’ve left Susan,” he blurted out. “I’m staying at the Princewill Guesthouse in Ikeja. I’ll pick up the rest of my things from her house before I leave for Nsukka.”

Kainene stared at him, and he saw surprise on her face and then something else he was not sure of. Was it puzzlement?

“It’s never been a proper relationship, really,” he said. He did not want her to think he had done it because of her, did not want her asking herself questions about their relationship. Not yet.

“You’ll need a houseboy,” she said.

“What?”

“A houseboy in Nsukka. You’ll need somebody to wash your clothes and clean your house.”

He was momentarily confused by the non sequitur. “A houseboy? I can manage quite well. I’ve lived alone for too long.”

“I’ll ask Olanna to find somebody,” Kainene said. She pulled a cigarette from the case, but she didn’t light it. She put it down on the bedside table and came over and hugged him, a tremulous tightening of her arms around him. He was so surprised he did not hug her back. She had never embraced him that closely unless they were in bed. She did not seem to know what to make of the hug either, because she backed away from him quickly and lit the cigarette. He thought about that hug often, and each time he did he had the sensation of a wall crumbling.

Richard left for Nsukka a week later. He drove at moderate speed, pulling off the road once in a while to look at the hand-drawn map Kainene had given him. After he crossed the River Niger, he decided to stop at Igbo-Ukwu. Now that he was finally in Igbo land, he wanted to see the home of the roped pot before anything else. A few cement houses dotted the village; they marred the picturesque quality of the mud huts that were crowded on either side of dirt paths, paths so narrow he parked his car a long way away and followed a young man in khaki shorts who seemed used to showing visitors around. His name was Emeka Anozie. He had been one of the laborers who worked at the dig. He showed Richard the wide rectangular ditches where the excavations had taken place, the shovels and pans that had been used to brush the dust off the bronzes.

“You want to talk to our big father? I will interpret for you,” Emeka offered.

“Thank you.” Richard felt slightly overwhelmed by the warm reception, by the neighbors who trailed in and said, “Good afternoon,
nno
, welcome,” as if they did not even think about minding that he had come uninvited.

Pa Anozie had a dirty-looking cloth wound around his body and tied behind his neck. He led the way into his dim
obi
, which smelled of mushrooms. Although Richard had read about how the bronzes were found, he asked the question anyway. Pa Anozie nudged a pinch of snuff up his nostrils before he began telling the story. About twenty years ago, his brother was digging a well when he hit something metallic that turned out to be a gourd. He soon found a few others and brought them out, washed them, and called the neighbors to come in and see them. They looked well crafted and vaguely familiar, but nobody knew of anyone making anything like them. Soon, word got to the district commissioner in Enugu, who sent somebody to take them to the Department of Antiquities in Lagos. After that, nobody came or asked anything else about the bronzes for a while, and his brother built his well and life went on. Then, a few years ago, the white man from Ibadan came to excavate. There were long talks before the work began, because of a goat house and compound wall that would have to be removed, but the work went well. It was harmattan, but because they feared the thunderstorms, they covered the ditches with tarpaulins spread across bamboo sticks. They found such lovely things: calabashes, shells, many ornaments that women used to decorate themselves, snake images, pots.

“They also found a burial chamber, didn’t they?” Richard asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think it was used by the king?”

Pa Anozie gave Richard a long pained look and mumbled
something for a while, looking grieved. Emeka laughed before he translated. “Papa said he thought you were among the white people who know something. He said the people of Igboland do not know what a king is. We have priests and elders. The burial place was maybe for a priest. But the priest does not suffer people like king. It is because the white man gave us warrant chiefs that foolish men are calling themselves kings today.”

Richard apologized. He did know that the Igbo were said to have been a republican tribe for thousands of years, but one of the articles about the Igbo-Ukwu findings had suggested that perhaps they once had kings and later deposed them. The Igbo were, after all, a people who deposed gods that had outlived their usefulness. Richard sat there for a while, imagining the lives of people who were capable of such beauty, such complexity, in the time of Alfred the Great. He wanted to write about this, to create something from this, but he did not know what. Perhaps a speculative novel where the main character is an archaeologist digging for bronzes who is then transported to an idyllic past?

He thanked Pa Anozie and got up to leave. Pa Anozie said something and Emeka asked, “Papa is asking will you not take photo of him? All the white people that have come take photo.”

Richard shook his head. “No, sorry. I haven’t brought a camera.”

Emeka laughed. “Papa is asking what kind of white man is this? Why did he come here and what is he doing?”

As he drove toward Nsukka, Richard, too, wondered just what he was doing and, more worrying, what he was going to write.

The university house on Imoke Street was reserved for visiting researchers and artists; it was sparse, near ascetic, and Richard looked over the two armchairs in the living room, the single bed, the bare kitchen cupboards, and felt instantly at home. The
house was filled with a suitable silence. When he visited Olanna and Odenigbo, though, she said, “I’m sure you must want to make the place a little more habitable,” so he said “Yes,” although he liked the soulless furnishing. He agreed only because Olanna’s smile was like a prize, because her attention flattered him. She insisted that he hire their gardener, Jomo, to come in twice a week and plant some flowers in the yard. She introduced him to their friends; she showed him the market; she said she had found him the perfect houseboy.

Richard envisaged somebody young and alert like their houseboy, Ugwu, but Harrison turned out to be a small stooped stick of a man, middle-aged, wearing an oversize white shirt that stopped below his knees. He bowed extravagantly at the beginning of each conversation. He told Richard with unconcealed pride that he had formerly worked for the Irish priest Father Bernard and the American professor Land. “I am making very good beet salad,” he said that first day, and later Richard realized that he was proud not only of his salad but also of cooking with beets, which he had to buy in the “specialty vegetable” stall because most Nigerians did not eat them. The first dinner Harrison cooked was a savory fish, with the beet salad as a starter. A crimson beet stew appeared next to his rice the following evening. “It is from an American recipe for potato stew that I am making this one,” Harrison said, as he watched Richard eat. The next day there was a beet salad, and the next another beet stew, now frighteningly red, next to the chicken.

“No more, please, Harrison,” Richard said, raising his hand. “No more beets.”

Harrison looked disappointed, and then his face brightened. “But, sah, I am cooking the food of your country; all the food you are eating as children I cook. In fact, I’m not cooking Nigerian foods, only foreign recipe.”

“Nigerian food is quite all right, Harrison,” Richard said. If
only Harrison knew how much he had disliked the food of his childhood, the sharp-tasting kippers full of bones, the porridge with the appalling thick skin on top like a waterproof lining, the overcooked roast beef with fat around the edges drenched in gravy.