Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection
and she could hear the rise and fall of voices from the living room. For a while Odenigbo had asked their friends not to visit. He had stopped playing tennis, too, so he could be at home and Ugwu would not have to take her to the toilet. She was pleased that they were visiting again. Sometimes she followed the conversation. She knew that the university women’s association was organizing food donations for the refugees, that the markets and railways and tin mines in the North were said to be empty now that the Igbo had fled, that Colonel Ojukwu was now seen as the leader of the Igbo, that people were talking about secession and a new country, which would be named after the bay, the Bight of Biafra.
Miss Adebayo was speaking in her loud voice. ‘I am saying that our students should stop making noise. Asking David Hunt to go does not make sense. Give the man a chance and see if peace will come.’
‘David Hunt thinks we are all mental children.’ It was Okeoma. ‘The man should go home. Why is he coming to tell us how to put out a fire, when it is he and his fellow British who collected the firewood for it in the first place?’
‘They may have collected the firewood, but we lit the match,’ said somebody with an unfamiliar voice, perhaps it was Professor Achara, the new lecturer in physics, who had come back from Ibadan after the second coup.
‘Firewood or no firewood, the important thing is to find a way to make peace before things explode,’ Miss Adebayo said.
‘What peace are we looking for? Gowon himself has said that a basis for unity does not exist, so what peace are we looking for?’ Odenigbo asked. Olanna imagined him at the edge of his chair, pushing his glasses back as he spoke. ‘Secession is the only answer. If Gowon wanted to keep this country united, he would have done something long ago. For goodness’ sake, not one of them has come out to condemn the massacres, and months have passed! It is as if all our people who were killed don’t matter!’
‘Didn’t you hear what Zik said the other day? Eastern Nigeria seethes, seethes, and will continue to seethe until the federal government addresses the massacres,’ Professor Ezeka said, his hoarse voice quickly fading.
Olanna’s head ached. The sun shone weakly through the curtains Ugwu had drawn when he brought her breakfast. She needed to urinate; she urinated too often these days and she kept forgetting to ask Dr Patel if her medication was the reason. She stared at the bell on the bedside cabinet, then reached out and ran a hand over the black, dome-shaped plastic, over the red button in the middle that gave out a shrill sound when she depressed it. Odenigbo had insisted on installing it himself, at first, and each time she pressed it, there was a fire spark at the wall connection. Finally, he brought an electrician, who chuckled as he did the rewiring. The bell no longer sparked, but it was too loud, and whenever she needed to go to the toilet and rang it, the echo reverberated all over the house. She let her finger linger over the red button, then drew away. She would not ring it. She lowered her legs to the floor. The sound from the living room was diminished now as if somebody had lowered the collective volume of the voices.
Then she heard Okeoma say ‘Aburi’. It sounded lovely, the name of that Ghanaian town, and she imagined a sleepy cluster of homes on stretches of sweet-scented grasslands. Aburi came up often in their conversations: Okeoma would say that Gowon should have followed the agreement he and Ojukwu signed in Aburi, or Professor Ezeka would say that Gowon’s reneging after Aburi meant that he did not wish the Igbo well, or Odenigbo would proclaim, ‘On Aburi we stand.’
‘But how can Gowon make such a turnaround?’ Okeoma’s voice was louder. ‘He agreed to confederation at Aburi, and now he wants one Nigeria with a unitary government, but a unitary government was the very reason that he and his people killed Igbo officers.’
Olanna stood up and placed one leg forwards, then the other. She swayed. There was a tight pressure around her ankles. She was walking. The firmness of the floor beneath her feet was stirring and her legs felt as if they had vibrating vessels in them. She walked past Baby’s Raggedy Ann lying on the floor, and stopped to look down at the stuffed doll for a while before she went in to the toilet.
Later, Odenigbo came in and looked searchingly into her eyes in the way he often did, as if looking for proof of something. ‘You haven’t rung in a while, nkem. Don’t you have to urinate?’
‘Have they all gone?’
‘Yes. Don’t you want to urinate?’
‘I did already. I walked.’
Odenigbo stared at her.
‘I walked,’ Olanna said again. ‘I used the toilet.’
There was something she had never seen on Odenigbo’s face, something precious and frightened. She sat up and he immediately reached out to hold her, but she shrugged him off and walked a few steps to the wardrobe and then back to the bed. Odenigbo sat and looked at her.
She took his hand and touched it to her face, pressed it against her breast. ‘Touch me.’
‘I’m going to tell Patel. I want him to come in and take a look at you.’
‘Touch me.’ She knew he didn’t want to, that he touched her breasts because he would do whatever she wanted, whatever would make her better. She caressed his neck, buried her fingers in his dense hair, and when he slid into her, she thought about Arize’s pregnant belly, how easily it must have broken, skin stretched that taut. She started to cry.
‘Nkem, don’t cry.’ Odenigbo had stopped; he was lying next to her and smoothing her forehead. Later, when he gave her more pills and some water, she took them dutifully and then lay back and waited for the strange stillness they brought.
Ugwu’s gentle knock woke her up; he would open the door and come in with a tray of food that he would place next to her packets of medicine, bottle of Lucozade, and tin of glucose. She remembered the first week she came back, the week that Odenigbo sprang up whenever she stirred. She had asked for water and Odenigbo opened the bedroom door to go to the kitchen and nearly tripped on Ugwu, curled on a mat right outside their door. ‘My good man, what are you doing here?’ he asked, and Ugwu answered, ‘You don’t know where anything is in the kitchen, sah.’
She closed her eyes now and pretended she was asleep. He was standing close to her and watching her; she could hear his breathing.
‘When you are ready, mah, the food is here,’ he said. Olanna nearly laughed; he probably knew all the times she pretended to be asleep when he brought her food. She opened her eyes. ‘What did you cook?’
‘Jollof rice.’ He raised the cover of the dish. ‘I used fresh tomatoes from the garden.’
‘Has Baby eaten?’
‘Yes, mah. She is playing outside with Dr Okeke’s children.’
Olanna picked up the fork and held it.
‘I will make fruit salad for you tomorrow, mah. That pawpaw tree behind has a ripe fruit. I will give it one more day, and then I will pluck it fast before those birds come for it. I will use orange and milk.’
‘Good.’
Ugwu still stood there, and she knew he would not leave until she had started to eat. She raised the fork to her mouth slowly, chewing with her eyes closed. It was as good as whatever Ugwu cooked, she was sure, but, except for the chalky pills, she had been unable to taste anything in so long. Finally, she drank some water and asked Ugwu to take the tray away.
On her bedside table, Odenigbo had placed a long sheet of paper with WE, UNIVERSITY STAFF, DEMAND SECESSION AS A MEANS OF SECURITY typewritten at the top and a patchwork of varied signatures at the bottom.
‘I was waiting for you to be strong enough to sign it before I deliver it to the statehouse in Enugu,’ he had said.
After Ugwu left the room, she picked up a pen and signed the letter and then checked through the text for any errors. There were none. But Odenigbo didn’t need to deliver the letter because the secession was announced that evening. He sat on the bed with the radio placed on the bedside cabinet. The reception had