Half of a Yellow Sun (13 page)

“Okay, sah.” Harrison looked morose.

“By the way, Harrison, do you happen to know of any herbs for men?” Richard asked, hoping he sounded casual.

“Sah?”

“Herbs.” Richard gestured vaguely.

“Vegetables, sah? Oh, I make any of the salad of your country very good, sah. For Professor Land, I am making many different-different salad.”

“Yes, but I mean vegetables for sickness.”

“Sickness? You see doctor in Medical Center.”

“I am interested in African herbs, Harrison.”

“But sah, they are bad, from the witch doctor. They are devilish.”

“Of course.” Richard gave up. He should have known that Harrison, with his excessive love for all things non-Nigerian, was not the right person to ask. He would ask Jomo instead.

Richard waited until Jomo arrived and then stood at the window watching him water the newly planted lilies. Jomo placed the watering can aside and began to pick the umbrella tree fruit; they had fallen during the previous night, and lay, oval and pale yellow, on the lawn. Richard often smelled the over-sweetness of their rotting, a scent he knew he would always associate with living in Nsukka. Jomo held a raffia bag full of fruit when Richard came up to him.

“Oh. Good morning, Mr. Richard, sah,” he said, in his solemn manner. “I want take the fruits to Harrison in case you want, sah. I no take them for myself.” Jomo placed the bag down and picked up his watering can.

“It’s all right, Jomo. I don’t want any of the fruit,” Richard said. “By the way, would you know of any herbs for men? For men who have problems with … with being with a woman?”

“Yes, sah.” Jomo kept watering as if this was a question he heard every day.

“You know of some herbs for men?”

“Yes, sah.”

Richard felt a triumphant leap in his stomach. “I should like to see them, Jomo.”

“My brother get problem before because the first wife is not pregnant and the second wife is not pregnant. There is one leaf that the
dibia
give him and he begin to chew. Now he has pregnant the wives.”

“Oh. Very good. Could you get me this herb, Jomo?”

Jomo stopped and looked at him, his wise wizened face full of fond pity. “It no work for white man, sah.”

“Oh, no. I want to write about it.”

Jomo shook his head. “You go to
dibia
and you chew it there in front of him. Not for writing, sah.” Jomo turned back to his watering, humming tunelessly.

“I see,” Richard said, and as he went back indoors he made sure not to let his dejection show; he walked straight and reminded himself that he was, after all, the master.

Harrison was standing outside the front door, pretending to polish the glass. “Is there something that Jomo is not doing well, sah?” he asked hopefully.

“I was just asking Jomo some questions.”

Harrison looked disappointed. It was clear from the beginning that he and Jomo would not get along, the cook and the gardener, each thinking himself better than the other. Once, Richard heard Harrison tell Jomo not to water the plants outside the study window because “the sound of water is disturbing Sah writing.” Harrison wanted Richard to hear it, too, the way he
spoke loudly, standing just outside the study window. Harrison’s obsequiousness amused Richard, as did Harrison’s reverence for his writing; Harrison had taken to dusting the typewriter every day, even though it was never dusty, and was reluctant to throw away manuscript pages he saw in the dustbin. “You are not using this again, sah? You are sure?” Harrison would ask, holding the crumpled pages, and Richard would say that, yes, he was sure. Sometimes he wondered what Harrison would say if he told him that he wasn’t even sure what he was writing about, that he had written a sketch about an archaeologist and then discarded it, written a love story between an Englishman and an African woman and discarded it, and had started writing about life in a small Nigerian town. Most of his material for his latest effort came from the evenings he spent with Odenigbo and Olanna and their friends. They were casually accepting of him, did not pay him any particular attention, and perhaps because of that he felt comfortable sitting on a sofa in the living room and listening.

When Olanna first introduced him to Odenigbo, saying, “This is Kainene’s friend that I told you about, Richard Churchill,” Odenigbo shook his hand warmly and said, “‘I have not become the king’s first minister in order to preside over the liquidation of the British Empire.’”

It took Richard a moment to understand before he laughed at the poor imitation of Sir Winston Churchill. Later, he watched Odenigbo wave around a copy of the
Daily Times
, shouting, “It is
now
that we have to begin to decolonize our education! Not tomorrow, now! Teach them our history!” and thought to himself that here was a man who trusted the eccentricity that was his personality, a man who was not particularly attractive but who would draw the most attention in a room full of attractive men. Richard watched Olanna as well, and each time he glanced at her he felt renewed, as if she had become more beautiful in the preceding minutes. He felt an unpleasant emotion, though, seeing
Odenigbo’s hand placed on her shoulder and, later, imagining them together in bed. He and Olanna said little to each other, outside of the general conversation, but a day before he left to visit Kainene in Port Harcourt, Olanna said, “Richard, please greet Kainene.”

“I will,” he said; it was the first time she had mentioned Kainene.

Kainene picked him up at the train station in her Peugeot 404 and drove away from the center of Port Harcourt toward the ocean, to an isolated three-story house with verandas wreathed in creeping bougainvillea of the palest shade of violet. Richard smelled the saltiness of the air as Kainene led him through wide rooms with tastefully mismatched furniture, wood carvings, muted paintings of landscapes, rounded sculptures. The polished floors had a woody scent.

“I did wish it was closer to the sea, so we could have a better view. But I changed Daddy’s décor and it’s not too
nouveau riche
, I pray?” Kainene asked.

Richard laughed. Not just because she was mocking Susan—he had told her what Susan had said about Chief Ozobia—but because she had said
we. We
meant both of them; she had included him. When she introduced him to her stewards, three men in ill-fitting khaki uniforms, she told them, with that wry smile of hers, “You will be seeing Mr. Richard often.”

“Welcome, sah,” they said in unison, and they stood almost at attention as Kainene pointed to each and said his name: Ikejide, Nnanna, and Sebastian.

“Ikejide is the only one with half a brain in his head,” Kainene said.

The three men smiled, as though they each thought differently but would of course say nothing.

“Now, Richard, I’ll give you a tour of the grounds.” Kainene gave a mocking bow and led the way out through the back door to the orange orchard.

“Olanna asked me to say hello to you,” Richard said, taking her hand.

“So her revolutionary lover has admitted you into the fold. We should be grateful. It used to be that he allowed only black lecturers in his house.”

“Yes, he told me. He said that Nsukka was full of people from USAID and the Peace Corps and Michigan State University, and he wanted a forum for the few Nigerian lecturers.”

“And their nationalist passion.”

“I suppose so. He
is
refreshingly different.”

“Refreshingly different,” Kainene repeated. She stopped to flatten something on the ground with the sole of her sandal. “You like them, don’t you? Olanna and Odenigbo.”

He wanted to look into her eyes, to try and discern what she wanted him to say. He wanted to say what she wanted to hear. “Yes, I like them,” he said. Her hand was lax in his and he worried that she would slip it away. “They’ve made it much easier for me to get used to Nsukka,” he added, as if to justify his liking them. “I’ve settled in quite quickly. And of course there’s Harrison.”

“Of course, Harrison. And how is the Beet Man doing?”

Richard pulled her to him, relieved that she was not annoyed. “He’s well. He is a good man, really, very amusing.”

They were in the orchard now, in the dense interweaving of orange trees, and Richard felt a strangeness overcome him. Kainene was speaking, something about one of her employees, but he felt himself receding, his mind unfurling, rolling back on its own. The orange trees, the presence of so many trees around him, the hum of flies overhead, the abundance of green, brought back memories of his parents’ house in Wentnor. It was incongruous
that this tropical humid place, with the sun turning the skin of his arms a mild scarlet and the bees sunning themselves, should remind him of the crumbling house in England, which was drafty even in summer. He saw the tall poplars and willows behind the house, in the fields where he stalked badgers, the rumpled hills covered in heather and bracken that spread for miles and miles, dotted with grazing sheep.
Blue remembered hills
. He saw his father and his mother sitting with him up in his bedroom, which smelled of damp, while his father read them poetry.

His father’s voice would always deepen at the phrase
blue remembered hills
, and when they left his room, and for the weeks afterward when they would be away, he would look out of his window and watch the far-off hills take on a blue tinge.

Richard was bewildered by Kainene’s busy life. Seeing her in Lagos, in brief meetings at the hotel, he had not realized that hers was a life that ran fully and would run fully even if he was not in it. It was strangely disturbing to think that he was not the only occupant of her world, but stranger still was how her routines were already in place, after only a few weeks in Port Harcourt. Her work came first; she was determined to make her
father’s factories grow, to do better than he had done. In the evenings, visitors—company people negotiating deals, government people negotiating bribes, factory people negotiating jobs—dropped by, parking their cars near the entrance to the orchard. Kainene always made sure they didn’t stay long, and she didn’t ask him to meet them because she said they would bore him, so he stayed upstairs reading or scribbling until they left. Often, he would try to keep his mind from worrying about failing Kainene that night; his body was still so unreliable and he had discovered that thinking about failure made it more likely to happen.

It was during his third visit to Port Harcourt that the steward knocked on the bedroom door to announce, “Major Madu came, madam,” and Kainene asked if Richard would please come down with her.

“Madu is an old friend and I’d like you to meet him. He’s just come back from an army training course in Pakistan,” she said.

Richard smelled the guest’s cologne from the hallway, a cloying, brawny scent. The man wearing it was striking in a way that Richard immediately thought was primordial: a wide mahogany-colored face, wide lips, a wide nose. When he stood to shake hands, Richard nearly stepped back. The man was huge. Richard was used to being the tallest man in a room, the one who was looked up to, but here was a man who was at least three inches taller than he was, and with a width to his shoulders and a firm bulk to his body that made him seem taller,
hulking
.

“Richard, this is Major Madu Madu,” Kainene said.

“Hello,” Major Madu said. “Kainene has told me about you.”

“Hello,” Richard said. It was too intimate, to hear this mammoth man with the slightly condescending smile on his face say Kainene’s name like that, as if he knew Kainene very well, as if he knew something that Richard did not know, as if whatever Kainene had told him about Richard had been whispered in his
ear, amid the silly giggles born of physical intimacy. And what sort of name was Madu Madu anyway? Richard sat on a sofa and refused Kainene’s offer of a drink. He felt pale. He wished Kainene had said,
This is my lover Richard
.

“So you and Kainene met in Lagos?” Major Madu asked.

“Yes,” Richard said.

“She first told me about you when I called her from Pakistan about a month ago.”

Richard could not think of what to say. He did not know Kainene had talked to him from Pakistan and did not remember her ever mentioning a friendship with an army officer whose first name and surname were the same. “And how long have you known each other?” Richard asked, and immediately wondered if he sounded suspicious.

“My family’s compound in Umunnachi is right next to the Ozobias’.” Major Madu turned to Kainene. “Aren’t our forefathers said to be related? Only that your people stole our land and we cast you out?”

“It was your people who stole the land,” Kainene said, and laughed. Richard was surprised to hear the husky tone of her laughter. He was even more surprised at how familiarly Major Madu behaved, the way he sank into the sofa, got up to flip the album in the stereo, joked with the stewards serving dinner. Richard felt left out of things. He wished Kainene had told him that Major Madu would be staying for dinner. He wished she would drink gin and tonic like him rather than whisky with water like Major Madu. He wished the man would not keep asking him questions, as if to engage him, as if the man were the host and Richard the visitor. How are you enjoying Nigeria? Isn’t the rice delicious? How is your book going? Do you like Nsukka?

Richard resented the questions and the man’s perfect table manners.

“I trained at Sandhurst,” Major Madu said, “and what I hated most was the cold. Not least because they made us run every morning in the bloody cold with only a thin shirt and shorts on.”

“I can see why you’d find it cold,” Richard said.

“Oh, yes. To each his own. I’m sure you’ll soon get very homesick here,” he said.