"Fine, Mama. Did your journey go well?"
"Yes. Chukwu du anyi. God led us." She was looking at the radiogram. Her green george wrapper hung stiff on her waist and made her hips look square-shaped. She did not wear it with the air of the women on campus, the women who were used to owning coral beads and gold earrings. She wore it in the way that Ugwu imagined his mother would if she had the same wrapper: uncertainly, as if she did not believe that she was no longer poor.
"How are you, Ugwu?" she asked again.
"I am well, Mama."
"My son has told me how well you are doing." She reached out to adjust her green headgear, worn low on her head, almost covering her eyebrows.
"Yes, Mama." Ugwu looked down modestly.
"God bless you, your chi will break away the rocks on your path. Do you hear me?" She sounded like Master, that sonorous and authoritative tone.
"Yes, Mama."
"When will my son be back?"
"They will return in the evening. They said you should rest, Mama, when you come. I am cooking rice and chicken."
"Rest?" She smiled and walked into the kitchen. Ugwu watched her unpack foodstuffs from a bag: dried fish and cocoyams and spices and bitter leaf. "Have I not come from the farm?" she asked. "This is my rest. I have brought ingredients to make a proper soup for my son. I know you try, but you are only a boy. What does a boy know about real cooking?" She smirked and turned to the younger woman, who was standing by the door, arms folded and eyes still downcast, as if waiting for orders. "Is that not so, Amala? Does a boy belong in the kitchen?"
"Kpa, Mama, no," Amala said. She had a high-pitched voice.
"You see, Ugwu? A boy does not belong in the kitchen." Master's mother sounded triumphant. She was standing by the counter, already breaking up some dried fish, extracting the needlelike bones.
"Yes, Mama." Ugwu was surprised that she had not asked for a glass of water or gone inside to change first. He sat on the stool and waited for her to tell him what to do. It was what she wanted; he could sense that. She was looking over the kitchen now She peered suspiciously at the stove, knocked on the pressure cooker, tapped the pots with her fingers.
"Eh! My son wastes money on these expensive things," she said. "Do you not see, Amala?"
"Yes, Mama," Amala said.
"Those belong to my madam, Mama. She brought many things from Lagos," Ugwu said. It irritated him: her assuming that everything belonged to Master, her taking command of his kitchen, her ignoring his perfect jollof rice and chicken.
Master's mother did not respond. "Amala, come and prepare the cocoyams," she said.
"Yes, Mama." Amala put the cocoyams in a pot and then looked helplessly at the stove.
"Ugwu, light the fire for her. We are village people who only know firewood!" Master's mother said, with a short laugh.
Neither Ugwu nor Amala laughed. Ugwu turned the stove on. Master's mother threw a piece of dried fish into her mouth. "Put some water to boil for me, Ugwu, and then cut these ugu leaves for the soup."
"Yes, Mama."
"Is there a sharp knife in this house?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Use it and slice the ugu well."
"Yes, Mama."
Ugwu settled down with a cutting board. He knew she was watching him. When he started to slice the fibrous pumpkin leaves, she yelped, "Oh! Oh! Is this how you cut ugu? Alu melu! Make them smaller! The way you are doing it, we might as well cook the soup with the whole leaves."
"Yes, Mama." Ugwu began slicing the leaves in strips so thin they would break up in the soup.
"That's better," Master's mother said. "You see why boys have no business in the kitchen? You cannot even slice ugu well."
Ugwu wanted to say, Of course I slice ugu well. I do many things in the kitchen better than you do, but instead he said, "My madam and I don't slice vegetables, we shred them with our hands because the nutrients come out better that way."
"Your madam?" Master's mother paused. It was as if she wanted to say something but held herself back. The steam from boiling hung in the air. "Show Amala the mortar so she can pound the cocoyams," she said finally.
"Yes, Mama." Ugwu rolled out the wood mortar from under the table and was rinsing it when Olanna came home. She appeared at the kitchen door; her dress was smart-fitting, her smiling face was full of light.
"Mama!" she said. "Welcome, nno. I am Olanna. Did you go well?" She reached out to hug Master's mother. Her arms went round to enclose the older woman but Master's mother kept her hands to her sides and did not hug Olanna back.
"Yes, our journey went well," she said.
"Good afternoon," Amala said.
"Welcome." Olanna hugged Amala briefly before turning to Master's mother. "Is this Odenigbo's relative from home, Mama?"
"Amala helps me in the house," Master's mother said. She had turned her back to Olanna and was stirring the soup.
"Mama, come, let's sit down. Bia nodu ana. You should not bother in the kitchen. You should rest. Let Ugwu do it."
"I want to cook a proper soup for my son."
There was a light pause before Olanna said, "Of course, Mama." Her Igbo had slipped into the dialect that Ugwu heard in Master's speech when his cousins visited. She walked around the kitchen, as if eager to do something to please Master's mother but uncertain what to do. She opened the pot of rice and closed it. "At least let me help you, Mama. I'll go and change."
"I hear you did not suck your mother's breasts," Master's mother said.
Olanna stopped. "What?"
"They say you did not suck your mother's breasts." Master's mother turned to look at Olanna. "Please go back and tell those who sent you that you did not find my son. Tell your fellow witches that you did not see him."
Olanna stared at her. Master's mother's voice rose, as if Olanna's continued silence had driven her to shouting. "Did you hear me? Tell them that nobody's medicine will work on my son. He will not marry an abnormal woman, unless you kill me first. Only over my dead body!" Master's mother clapped her hands, then hooted and slapped her palm across her mouth so that the sound echoed.
"Mama" Olanna said.
"Don't mama me," Master's mother said. "I said, Do not mama me. Just leave my son alone. Tell your fellow witches that you did not find him!" She opened the back door and went outside and shouted. "Neighbors! There is a witch in my son's house! Neighbors!" Her voice was shrill. Ugwu wanted to gag her, to stuff sliced vegetables into her mouth. The soup was burning.
"Mah? Will you stay in the room?" he asked, moving toward Olanna.
Olanna seemed to get hold of herself. She tucked a braid behind her ear, picked up her bag from the table, and headed for the front door. "Tell your master I have gone to my flat," she said.
Ugwu followed her and watched as she got into her car and drove out. She did not wave. The yard was still; there were no butterflies flitting among the white flowers. Back in the kitchen, Ugwu was surprised to hear Master's mother singing a gently melodious church song: Nya nya oya mu ga-ana. Na m metu onu uwe ya aka…
She stopped singing and cleared her throat. "Where has that woman gone?"
"I don't know, Mama," Ugwu said. He walked over to the sink and began to put away the clean plates in the cupboard. He hated the too-strong aroma of her soup that filled the kitchen; the first thing he would do after she left was wash all the curtains because that smell would soak into them.
"This is why I came. They said she is controlling my son," Master's mother said, stirring the soup. "No wonder my son has not married while his mates are counting how many children they have. She has used her witchcraft to hold him. I heard her father came from a family of lazy beggars in Umunnachi until he got a job as a tax collector and stole from hardworking people. Now he has opened many businesses and is walking around in Lagos and answering a Big Man. Her mother is no better. What woman brings another person to breastfeed her own children when she herself is alive and well? Is that normal, gbo, Amala?"
"No, M
ama." Amala's eyes focused on the floor as if she were tracing patterns on it.
"I heard that all the time she was growing up, it was servants who wiped her ike when she finished shitting. And on top of it, her parents sent her to university. Why? Too much schooling ruins a woman; everyone knows that. It gives a woman a big head and she will start to insult her husband. What kind of wife will that be?" Master's mother raised one edge of her wrapper to wipe the sweat from her brow. "These girls that go to university follow men around until their bodies are useless. Nobody knows if she can have children. Do you know? Does anyone know?"
"No, Mama," Amala said.
"Does anyone know, Ugwu?"
Ugwu placed a plate down noisily and pretended as if he had not heard her. She came over and patted his shoulder.
"Don't worry, my son will find a good woman and he will not send you away after he marries."
Perhaps agreeing with the woman would make her exhaust herself quicker and shut her mouth. "Yes, Mama," he said.
"I know how hard my son worked to get where he is. All that is not to be wasted on a loose woman."
"No, Mama."
"I do not mind where the woman my son will marry comes from. I am not like those mothers who want to find wives for their sons only from their own hamlet. But I do not want a Wawa woman, and none of those Imo or Aro women, of course; their dialects are so strange I wonder who told them that we are all the same Igbo people."
"Yes, Mama."
"I will not let this witch control him. She will not succeed. I will consult the dibia Nwafor Agbada when I return home; the man's medicine is famous in our parts."
Ugwu stopped. He knew many stories of people who had used medicine from the dibia: the childless first wife who tied up the second wife's womb, the woman who made a neighbor's prosperous son go mad, the man who killed his brother because of a land quarrel. Perhaps Master's mother would tie up Olanna's womb or cripple her or, most frightening of all, kill her.
"I am coming, Mama. My Master sent me to the kiosk," Ugwu said, and hurried out through the back door before she said anything. He had to tell Master. He had been to Master's office only once, driven in Olanna's car when she stopped by to pick up something, but he was sure he could find it. It was near the zoo and his class had visited the zoo recently, walking in a single file led by Mrs. Oguike, and he had brought up the rear because he was the tallest.
At the corner of Mbanefo Street, he saw Master's car coming toward him. It stopped.
"This isn't the way to the market, is it, my good man?" Master asked.
"No, sah. I was coming to your office."
"Has my mother arrived?"
"Yes, sah. Sah, something happened."
"What?"
Ugwu told Master about the afternoon, quickly recounting the words of both women, and finished with what was the most horrible of all: "Mama said she will go to the dibia, sah."
"What rubbish," Master said. "Ngwa, get into the car. You might as well drive back home with me."
Ugwu was shocked that Master was not shocked, did not understand the gravity of the situation, and so he added, "It was very bad, sah. Very bad. Mama nearly slapped my madam."
"What? She slapped Olanna?" Master asked.
"No, sah." Ugwu paused; perhaps he had gone too far with the suggestion. "But it looked as if she wanted to slap my madam."
Master's face relaxed. "The woman has never been very reasonable, at any rate," he said, in English, shaking his head. "Get in, let's go."
But Ugwu did not want to get into the car. He wanted Master to turn around and go to Olanna's flat right away. His life was organized, secure, and Master's mother would have to be stopped from disrupting things; the first step was for Master to go and placate Olanna.
"Get into the car," Master said again, reaching across the front seat to make sure the door was unlocked.
"But, sah. I thought you are going to see my madam."
"Get in, you ignoramus!"
Ugwu opened the door and climbed in, and Master drove back to Odim Street.
5
Olanna looked at Odenigbo through the glass for a while before she opened the door. She closed her eyes as he walked in, as if doing so would deny her the pleasure that the scent of his Old Spice always brought. He was dressed for tennis in the white shorts she had often teased him were too tight around his buttocks.
"I was talking to my mother or I would have come earlier," he said. He pressed his lips to hers and gestured to the old boubou she was wearing. "Aren't you coming to the club?"
"I was cooking."
"Ugwu told me what happened. I'm so sorry my mother acted that way."
"I just had to leave… your house." Olanna faltered. She had wanted to say our house.
"You didn't have to, nkem. You should have ignored her, really." He placed a copy of Drum magazine down on the table and began pacing the room. "I've decided to talk to Dr. Okoro about the Labor Strike. It's unacceptable that Balewa and his cronies should completely reject their demands. Just unacceptable. We have to show support. We can't allow ourselves to become disconnected."
"Your mother made a scene."
"You're angry" Odenigbo looked puzzled. He sat down in the armchair, and for the first time she noticed how much space there was between the furniture, how sparse her flat was, how unlived in. Her things were in his house; her favorite books were in the shelves in his study. "Nkem, I didn't know you'd take this so seriously. You can see that my mother doesn't know what she's doing. She's just a village woman. She's trying to make her way in a new world with skills that are better suited for the old one." Odenigbo got up and moved closer to take her in his arms, but Olanna turned and walked into the kitchen.
"You never talk about your mother," she said. "You've never asked me to come to Abba with you to visit her."
"Oh, stop it, nkem. It's not as if I go that often to see her, and I did ask you the last time but you were going to Lagos."
She walked over to the stove and ran a sponge on the warm surface, over and over, her back to Odenigbo. She felt as if she had somehow failed him and herself by allowing his mother's behavior to upset her. She should be above it; she should shrug it off as the ranting of a village woman; she should not keep thinking of all the retorts she could have made instead of just standing mutely in that kitchen. But she was upset, and made even more so by Odenigbo's expression, as if he could not believe she was not quite as high-minded as he had thought. He was making her feel small and absurdly petulant and, worse yet, she suspected he was right. She always suspected he was right. For a brief irrational moment, she wished she could walk away from him. Then she wished, more rationally, that she could love him without needing him. Need gave him power without his trying; need was the choicelessness she often felt around him.
"What did you cook?" Odenigbo asked.
"Rice." She rinsed the sponge and put it away. "Aren't you going to play tennis?"
"I thought you would come."
"I don't feel up to it." Olanna turned around. "Why is your mother's behavior acceptable because she's a village woman? I know village women who do not behave this way."
"Nkem, my mother's entire life is in Abba. Do you know what a small bush village that is? Of course she will feel threatened by an educated woman living with her son. Of course you have to be a witch. That is the only way she can understand it. The real tragedy of our postcolonial world is not that the majority of people had no say in whether or not they wanted this new world; rather, it is that the majority have not been given the tools to negotiate this new world."
"Did you talk to her about this?"
"I didn't see the point. Look, I want to catch Dr. Okoro at the club. Let's discuss this when I get back. I'll stay here tonight."
She paused as she washed her hands. She wanted him to ask her to come back with him to the house, wanted him to say he would tell his mother off in front of her, for her. But here he was deciding to stay at her flat, like a frightened little
boy hiding from his mother.
"No," she said.
"What?"
"I said no." She walked into the living room without drying her hands. The flat seemed too small.
"What is wrong with you, Olanna?"
She shook her head. She would not let him make her feel that there was something wrong with her. It was her right to be upset, her right to choose not to brush her humiliation aside in the name of an overexalted intellectualism, and she would claim that right. "Go." She gestured toward the door. "Go and play your tennis and don't come back here."
She watched him get up and leave. He banged the door. They had never had a quarrel; he had never been impatient with dissent from her as he was with others. Or it may simply be that he humored her and did not think much of her opinions in the first place. She felt dizzy. She sat alone at her bare dining table-even her table mats were in his house-and ate the rice. It tasted bland, nothing like Ugwu's. She turned the radio on. She thought she heard rustles in the ceiling. She got up to go visit her neighbor Edna Whaler; she had always wanted to get to know the pretty black American woman who sometimes brought her cloth-covered plates of American biscuits. But she changed her mind at the door and didn't step out. After she left the half-eaten rice in the kitchen, she walked around the flat, picking up old newspapers and then putting them down. Finally, she went to the phone and waited for the operator.
"Give me the number quick, I have other things to do," the lazy nasal voice said.
Olanna was used to unprofessional and inept operators, but this was the rudest she had experienced.
"Haba, I will cut this line if you keep wasting my time," the operator said.
Olanna sighed and slowly recited Kainene's number.
Kainene sounded sleepy when she picked up the phone. "Olanna? Did something happen?"
Olanna felt a rush of melancholy; her twin sister thought something had to have happened for her to call. "Nothing happened. I just wanted to say kedu, to find out how you are."
"How shocking." Kainene yawned. "How's Nsukka? How's your revolutionary lover?"
Half of a Yellow Sun Page 12