Half of a Yellow Sun (29 page)

“War will not come.”

“Then why has Gowon continued to blockade us?”

Master ignored the question and turned to leave. Ugwu followed.

“Of course people are still donating food. That dull fellow
must be taking the food to his own family,” Master said, as he started the car.

“Yes, sah,” Ugwu said. “Even his stomach is very big.”

“That ignoramus Gowon pledged a miserable, measly amount for more than two million refugees. Did he think it was chickens that died and it is the surviving relatives of those chickens who have returned home?”

“No, sah.” Ugwu looked out of the window. It filled him with sadness, coming here to give
garri
and fish to people who had fed themselves in the North, listening week after week to Master saying the same things. He reached out and straightened the rope that dangled from the rearview mirror. The plastic keepsake attached to it was a painting of half of a yellow sun on a black background.

Later, as he sat on the backyard steps reading
The Pickwick Papers
, stopping often to think and to watch the slender leaves of corn swish in the breeze, he was not surprised to hear Master’s raised voice from the living room. Master was always short-tempered on days like this.

“And what about our university colleagues in Ibadan and Zaria and Lagos? Who is speaking out about this? They kept silent while white expatriates encouraged the rioters to kill Igbo people. You would be one of them if you didn’t happen to be in Igboland! How much sympathy can you have?” Master shouted.

“Don’t you dare say I have no sympathy! To say that secession is not the only way to security does not mean I don’t have sympathy!” It was Miss Adebayo.

“Did your cousins die? Did your uncle die? You’re going back to your people in Lagos next week and nobody will harass you for being Yoruba. Is it not your own people who are killing the Igbo in Lagos? Didn’t a group of your chiefs go to the North to
thank the emirs for sparing Yoruba people? So what are you saying? How is your opinion relevant?”

“You insult me, Odenigbo.”

“The truth has become an insult.”

There was silence and then the squeaking sound of the front door being opened and banged shut. Miss Adebayo had left. Ugwu stood up when he heard Olanna’s voice. “This is unacceptable, Odenigbo! You owe her an apology!”

It frightened him to hear her shout because she rarely did, and because the last time he had heard her shout was during those fractured weeks before Baby’s birth, when Mr. Richard stopped visiting and everything seemed to be on the brink of drowning. For a moment Ugwu heard nothing—perhaps Olanna, too, had walked out—and then he heard Okeoma reading. Ugwu knew the poem:
If the sun refuses to rise, we will make it rise
. The first time Okeoma read it, the same day the
Renaissance
newspaper was renamed the
Biafran Sun
, Ugwu had listened and felt buoyed by it, by his favorite line,
Clay pots fired in zeal, they will cool our feet as we climb
. Now, though, it made him teary. It made him long for the days when Okeoma recited poems about people getting buttocks rashes after defecating in imported buckets, the days when Miss Adebayo and Master shouted and yet did not end the evening with her storming off, the days when he still served pepper soup. Now, he served only kola nut.

Okeoma left a little while later, and Ugwu heard Olanna’s voice rise again. “You must, Odenigbo. You owe her an apology!”

“It is not a question of whether or not I owe her an apology. It is a question of whether or not I spoke the truth,” Master said. Olanna said something Ugwu did not hear and then Master spoke in a calmer tone, “All right,
nkem
, I will.”

Olanna came into the kitchen. “We are going out,” she said. “Come and lock the door.”

“Yes, mah.”

After they left in Master’s car, Ugwu heard a tap on the back door and went to see who it was.

“Chinyere,” he said, surprised. She never came over this early, and never to the main house either.

“Me and my madam and the children are leaving tomorrow morning for the village. I came to tell you to stay well.
Ka o di.”

Ugwu had never heard her say so much. He was not sure what to say. They looked at each other for a while.

“Go well,” he said. He watched her walk to the hedge that separated the two compounds and slip underneath it. She would no longer appear at his door at night and lie on her back and spread her legs silently, at least not for a while. He felt a strange crushing weight in his head. Change was hurtling toward him, bearing down on him, and there was nothing he could do to make it slow down.

He sat down and stared at the cover of
The Pickwick Papers
. There was a serene calm in the backyard, in the gentle wave of the mango tree and the winelike scent of ripening cashews. It belied what he saw around him. Fewer and fewer guests visited now, and in the evenings the campus streets were ghostly, covered by the pearly light of silence and emptiness. Eastern Shop had closed. Chinyere’s mistress was only one of many families on campus who were leaving; houseboys bought huge cartons in the market and cars drove out of compounds with their boots sunken by heavy loads. But Olanna and Master had not packed a single thing. They said that war would not come and that people were simply panicking. Ugwu knew that families had been told they could send women and children to the hometowns, but the men could not leave, because if the men left it would mean that they were panicking and there was nothing to panic about. “No cause for alarm” was what Master said often. “No cause for alarm.” Professor Uzomaka who lived opposite Dr. Okeke had
been turned back three times by the militiamen at the campus gates. They let him pass the third day after he swore that he would come back, that he was only taking his family to their hometown because his wife worried so much.

“Ugwuanyi!”

Ugwu looked up and saw his aunty coming toward him from the front yard. He stood up.

“Aunty! Welcome.”

“I was knocking on the front door.”

“Sorry. I did not hear.”

“Are you alone at home? Where is your master?”

“They went out. They took Baby with them.” Ugwu examined her face. “Aunty, is it well?”

She smiled. “It is well,
o di mma
. I bring a message from your father. They will have Anulika’s wine-carrying ceremony next Saturday.”

“Eh! Next Saturday?”

“It is better they do it now, before war comes, if war is going to come.”

“That is true.” Ugwu looked away, toward the lemon tree. “So. Anulika is really getting married.”

“Did you think you would marry your own sister?”

“God forbid.”

His aunty reached out and pinched his arm. “Look at you, a man has emerged.
Eh!
In a few years it will be your turn.”

Ugwu smiled. “It is you and my mother who will find a good person when the time comes, Aunty,” he said, with a false demureness. There was no point in telling her that Olanna had told him they would send him to university when he finished secondary school. He would not marry until he had become like Master, until he had spent many years reading books.

“I am going,” his aunty said.

“Won’t you drink some water?”

“I cannot stay.
Ngwanu
, let it be. Greet your master and give him my message.”

Even before his aunty left, Ugwu was already imagining his arrival for the ceremony. This time, he would finally hold Nnesinachi naked and pliant in his arms. His Uncle Eze’s hut was a good place to take her, or perhaps even the quiet grove by the stream, as long as the little children did not bother them. He hoped she would not be silent like Chinyere; he hoped she would make the same sounds he heard from Olanna when he pressed his ear to the bedroom door.

That evening, while he was cooking dinner, a quiet voice on the radio announced that Nigeria would embark on a police action to bring back the rebels of Biafra.

Ugwu was in the kitchen with Olanna, peeling onions, watching the movement of Olanna’s shoulder as she stirred the soup on the stove. Onions made him feel cleaned up, as if the tears they drew from him took away impurities. He could hear Baby’s high voice in the living room, playing with Master. He did not want either of them to come into the kitchen now. They would destroy the magic he felt, the sweet sting of onions in his eyes, the glow of Olanna’s skin. She was talking about the Northerners in Onitsha who had been killed in reprisal attacks. He liked the way
reprisal attacks
came out of her mouth.

“It’s so wrong,” she said. “So wrong. But His Excellency has handled it all well; God knows how many would have been killed if he did not have the Northern soldiers sent back to the North.”

“Ojukwu is a great man.”

“Yes, he is, but we are all capable of doing the same things to one another, really.”

“No, mah. We are not like those Hausa people. The reprisal
killings happened because they pushed us.” His
reprisal killings
had come out sounding close to hers, he was sure.

Olanna shook her head but said nothing for a while. “After your sister’s wine-carrying, we will go to Abba to spend some time there since the campus is so empty,” she said finally. “You can stay with your people if you want to. We will come back for you when we return; we won’t be gone for more than a month, at the most. Our soldiers will drive the Nigerians back in a week or two.”

“I will come with you and Master, mah.”

Olanna smiled, as if she had wanted him to say that. “This soup is not thickening at all,” she muttered. Then she told him about the first time she cooked soup as a young girl, how she managed to burn the bottom of the pot to a charred purple and yet the soup turned out very tasty. He was absorbed in Olanna’s voice and so he did not hear the sound
—boom-boom-boom
—from somewhere distant outside the windows, until she stopped stirring and looked up.

“What is that?” she asked. “Do you hear it, Ugwu? What is it?”

Olanna dropped the ladle and ran into the living room. Ugwu followed. Master was standing by the window, holding a folded copy of the
Biafran Sun
.

“What is that?” Olanna asked. She pulled Baby to her. “Odenigbo!”

“They are advancing,” Master said calmly. “I think we should plan on leaving today.”

Then Ugwu heard the loud honk of a car outside. Suddenly he was afraid to go to the door, even to go to the window and peek out.

Master opened the door. The green Morris Minor had parked so hurriedly that one tire was outside the driveway, crushing the lilies that bordered the lawn; when the man came out of the car,
Ugwu was shocked to see that he was only wearing a singlet and trousers. And bathroom slippers too!

“Evacuate now! The federals have entered Nsukka! We are evacuating now! Right now! I am going to all the houses still occupied. Evacuate now!”

It was after he had spoken and rushed back into his car and driven off, honking continuously, that Ugwu recognized him: Mr. Vincent Ikenna, the registrar. He had visited a few times. He drank his beer with Fanta.

“Get a few things together,
nkem,”
Master said. “I’ll check the water in the car. Ugwu, lock up quick! Don’t forget the Boys’ Quarters.”

“Gini?
What things?” Olanna asked. “What will I take?”

Baby started to cry. There was the sound again,
boom-boomboom
, closer and louder.

“It won’t be for long, we’ll be back soon. Just take a few things, clothes.” Master gestured vaguely before he grabbed the car keys from the shelf.

“I’m still cooking,” Olanna said.

“Put it in the car,” Master said.

Olanna looked dazed; she wrapped the pot of soup in a dish towel and took it out to the car. Ugwu ran around throwing things into bags: Baby’s clothes and toys, biscuits from the fridge, his clothes, Master’s clothes, Olanna’s wrappers and dresses. He wished he knew what to take. He wished that sound did not seem even closer. He dumped the bags in the backseat of the car and dashed back inside to lock the doors and close the window louvers. Master was honking outside. He stood in the middle of the living room, feeling dizzy. He needed to urinate. He ran into the kitchen and turned the stove off. Master was shouting his name. He took the albums from the shelves, the three photo albums Olanna so carefully put together, and ran out
to the car. He had hardly shut the car door when Master drove off. The campus streets were eerie; silent and empty.

At the gates, Biafran soldiers were waving cars through. They looked distinguished in their khaki uniforms, boots shining, half of a yellow sun sewn on their sleeves. Ugwu wished he was one of them. Master waved and said, “Well done!”

Dust swirled all around, like a see-through brown blanket. The main road was crowded; women with boxes on their heads and babies tied to their backs, barefoot children carrying bundles of clothes or yams or boxes, men dragging bicycles. Ugwu wondered why they were holding lit kerosene lanterns although it was not yet dark. He saw a little child stumble and fall and the mother bend and yank him up, and he thought about home, about his little cousins and his parents and Anulika. They were safe. They would not have to run because their village was too remote. This only meant that he would not see Anulika get married, that he would not hold Nnesinachi in his arms as he had planned. But he would be back soon. The war would last just long enough for the Biafran army to gas the Nigerians to kingdom come. He would yet taste Nnesinachi’s sweetness, he would yet caress that soft flesh.

Master drove slowly because of the crowds and road blocks, but slowest when they got to Milliken Hill. The lorry ahead of them had
NO ONE KNOWS TOMORROW
printed on its body. As it crawled up the steep incline, a young man jumped out and ran alongside, carrying a wood block, ready to throw it behind the back tire if the lorry were to roll back.

When they finally arrived at Abba, it was dusk, the windshield was coated in ocher dust, and Baby was asleep.

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