Half of a Yellow Sun

by Ngozi Adichie Chimamanda

  He didn't sleep well; he felt as if he had just laid his head on the pillow before the blinding sunlight streamed in through his curtains and he heard Harrison 's clatter in the kitchen and Jomo's digging in the garden. He felt brittle. He could not wait to sleep properly, with Kainene's thin arm pressed against his body.

  Harrison served fried eggs and toast for breakfast.

  "Sah? There are papers I am seeing on the ground in the study?" He looked alarmed.

  "Leave them there."

  "Yes, sah." Harrison folded and refolded his arms. "You are taking your manscrit? I pack other papers for you?"

  "No, I won't be working this weekend," Richard said. The disappointment on Harrison 's face did not amuse him as it usually did. He wondered, as he boarded the train, what it was Harrison did during the weekends. Perhaps he cooked himself tiny exquisite meals. He shouldn't have been so ill-tempered with the poor man; it wasn't Harrison 's fault that Okeoma felt he was condescending. It was the look in Okeoma's eyes that worried him the most: a disdainful distrust that made him think of reading somewhere that the African and the European would always be irreconcilable. It was wrong of Okeoma to assume that he was one of those Englishmen who did not give the African the benefit of an equal intelligence. Perhaps he had sounded surprised, now that he thought of it, but it was the same surprise he would express if a similar discovery were made in England or anywhere else in the world.

  Hawkers were milling about. "Buy groundnuts!" "Buy oranges!" "Buy plantains!"

  Richard beckoned to a young woman carrying a tray of boiled groundnuts that he didn't really want. She lowered her tray and he took one, cracked it between his fingers, and chewed the nuts inside before he asked for two cups. She looked surprised that he knew about tasting first, and he thought sourly that Okeoma, too, would have been surprised. Before he ate each nut, he examined it-soft-boiled, light purple, shriveled-and tried not to think of the crumpled pages in his study, until the train arrived in Port Harcourt.

  "Madu's invited us to dinner tomorrow," Kainene said, as she drove him from the train station in her long American car. "His wife has just come back from overseas."

  "Has she?" Richard said little else, and instead looked at the hawkers on the road, shouting, gesturing, running after cars to collect their money.

  The sound of the rain slapping against the window woke him up the next morning. Kainene lay beside him, her eyes half open in that eerie way that meant she was deeply asleep. He looked at her dark chocolate skin, which shone with oil, and lowered his head to her face. He didn't kiss her, didn't let his face touch hers, but placed it close enough so that he could feel the moistness of her breath and smell its faint curdled scent. He stretched and went to the window. It rained in slants here in Port Harcourt so that the water hit the windows and walls rather than the roof. Perhaps it was because the ocean was so close, because the air was so heavy with water that it let it fall too soon. For a moment, the rain became intense and the sound against the window grew loud, like pebbles being flung against the glass. He stretched again. The rain had stopped and the windowpanes were cloudy. Behind him, Kainene stirred and mumbled something.

  "Kainene?" he said.

  Her eyes were still half open, her breathing still regular.

  "I'm going for a walk," he said, although he was sure she didn't hear him.

  Outside, Ikejide was plucking oranges; his uniform bunched up at the back as he nudged fruit down with a stick.

  "Good morning, sah," he said.

  "Kedu?" Richard asked. He felt comfortable practicing his Igbo with Kainene's stewards, because they were always so expressionless that it did not matter whether or not he got the tones right.

  "I am well, sah."

  "Jisie ike"

  "Yes, sah."

  Richard went to the bottom of the orchard, where he could see, through the thicket of trees, the white foam of the sea's waves. He sat on the ground. He wished that Major Madu had not invited them to dinner; he was not at all interested in meeting the man's wife. He got up and stretched and went around to the front yard and looked at the violet bougainvillea that crept up the walls. He walked for a while down the muddy stretch of deserted road that led to the house before he turned back. Kainene was in bed reading a newspaper. He climbed in beside her and she reached out and touched his hair, her fingers gently caressing his scalp. "Are you all right? You've been tense since yesterday."

  Richard told her about Okeoma, and because she did not respond right away, he added, "I remember the first time I read about Igbo-Ukwu art, in an article where an Oxford don described it as having a strange rococo, almost Faberge-like virtuosity. I never forgot that- rococo, almost Faberge-like virtuosity. I fell in love even with that expression."

  She folded the newspaper and placed it on the bedside cabinet. "Why does it matter so much what Okeoma thinks?"

  "I do love the art. It was horrible of him to accuse me of disrespect."

  "And it's wrong of you to think that love leaves room for nothing else. It's possible to love something and still condescend to it."

  Richard rolled away from her. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know if I'm a writer."

  "You won't know until you write, will you?" Kainene climbed out of bed, and he noticed a metallic sheen on her thin shoulders. "I see you don't feel up to an evening out. I'll call Madu and cancel dinner."

  She came back after making the phone call and sat on the bed, and in the silence that separated them he suddenly felt grateful that her crispness gave him no space for self-pity, gave him nothing to hide behind.

  "I once spat in my father's glass of water," she said. "He hadn't upset me or anything. I just did it. I was fourteen. I would have been incredibly satisfied if he drank it, but of course Olanna ran and changed the water." She stretched out beside him. "Now you tell me something horrible you did."

  He was aroused by her silky skin rubbing against his, by how readily she had changed the evening plans with Major Madu. "I didn't have the confidence to do horrible things," he said.

  "Well, tell me something, then."

  He thought of telling her about that day in Wentnor when he hid from Molly and felt, for the first time, the possibility of shaping his own destiny But he didn't. Instead, he told her about his parents, how they stared at each other when they talked, forgot his birthdays, and then had Molly make a cake that said happy belated birthday weeks after. They never knew what and when he ate; Molly fed him when she remembered. They had not planned to have him and, because of that, they had raised him as an afterthought. But he understood even as a young boy that it was not that they did not love him, rather it was that they often forgot that they did because they loved each other too much. Kainene raised her eyebrows, sardonic, as if his reasoning did not make sense to her, and because of that he was afraid to tell her that he sometimes thought he loved her too much.

  2. The Book: The World Was Silent When We Died

  He discusses the British soldier-merchant Taubman Coldie, how he coerced, cajoled, and killed to gain control of the palm-oil trade and how, at the Berlin Conference of 1884 where Europeans divided Africa, he ensured that Britain beat France to two protectorates around the River Niger: the North and the South.

  The British preferred the North. The heat there was pleasantly dry; the Hausa-Fulani were narrow-featured and therefore superiorto the negroid Southerners, Muslim and therefore as civilized as one could get for natives, feudal and therefore perfect for indirect rule. Equable emirs collected taxes for the British, and the British, in return, kept the Christian missionaries away.

  The humid South, on the other hand, was full of mosquitoes and animists and disparate tribes. The Yoruba were the largest in the Southwest. In the Southeast, the Igbo lived in small republican communities. They were non-docile and worryingly ambitious. Since they did not have the good sense to have kings, the British created "warrant chiefs," because indirect rule cost the Crown less. Missionaries were allowed in to tame the pag
ans, and the Christianity and education they brought flourished. In 1914, the governor-general joined the North and the South, and his wife picked a name. Nigeria was born.

  PART TWO. The Late Sixties

  7

  Ugwu lay ona mat in his mother's hut, staring at a dead spider squashed on the wall; its body fluids had stained the mud a deeper red. Anulika was measuring out cups of ukwa and the crusty aroma of roasted breadfruit seeds hung thick in the room. She was talking. She had been talking for quite a while, and Ugwu's head ached. His visit home suddenly seemed much longer than a week, perhaps because of the endless gassy churning in his stomach from eating only fruit and nuts. His mother's food was unpalatable. The vegetables were overcooked, the cornmeal was too lumpy, the soup too watery, and the yam slices coarse from being boiled without a dollop of butter. He could not wait to get back to Nsukka and finally eat a real meal.

  "I want to have a baby boy first, because it will place my feet firmly in Onyeka's house," Anulika said. She walked over to get a bag in the rafters and Ugwu noticed, again, the new suspicious roundness to her body: the breasts that filled her blouse, the buttocks that rolled with each step. Onyeka must have touched her. Ugwu could not bear to think of the man's ugly body thrusting into his sister's. It had all happened too fast; there had been talk of suitors the last time he visited, but she had spoken of Onyeka in such an indifferent way that he did not think she would accept his proposal so quickly. Now even their parents were too swift to talk about Onyeka, his good mechanic job in town, his bicycle, his good behavior, as if he were already a member of the family. Nobody ever mentioned his stunted height and the pointed teeth that looked like they belonged to a bush rat.

  "You know, Onunna from Ezeugwu's compound had a baby girl first, and her husband's people went to see a dibia to find out why! Of course, Onyeka's people will not do that to me, they don't dare, but I want to have a boy first anyway," Anulika said.

  Ugwu sat up. "I have tired of stories of Onyeka. I noticed something when he came by yesterday. He should bathe more often, he smells like rotten oil beans."

  "And you, what do you smell like?" Anulika poured the ukwa in the bag and knotted it. "I've finished. You better get going before it gets too late."

  Ugwu went out to the yard. His mother was pounding something in a mortar and his father was stooped near her, sharpening a knife against a stone. The scrape of metal against stone set off tiny sparks that flickered briefly before they disappeared.

  "Did Anulika wrap the ukwa well?" his mother asked.

  "She did." Ugwu raised the bag to show her.

  "Greet your master and madam," his mother said. "Thank them for everything they sent us."

  "Yes, Mother." He went over and hugged her. "Stay well. Greet Chioke when she returns."

  His father straightened up and wiped the knife blade on his palm before shaking hands. "Go well, ije oma. We will send word when Onyeka's people tell us they are ready to bring palm wine. It will be in a few months' time."

  "Yes, Father." Ugwu stood around while his little cousins and siblings, the younger ones naked and the older ones in oversize shirts, said their goodbyes and listed what they wanted him to bring on his next visit. Buy us bread! Buy us meat! Buy us fried fish! Buy us groundnuts!

  Anulika escorted him to the main road. He saw a familiar figure near the grove of ube trees and, although he had not seen her since she went to Kano to learn a trade four years ago, he knew immediately that it was Nnesinachi.

  "Anulika! Ugwu! Is it you?" Nnesinachi's voice was as husky as he remembered but she was taller now, and her skin was darker from the fierce sun in the North.

  When they hugged, he felt her chest push into his.

  "I would barely have recognized you, the North has changed you so," he said, wondering if she had really pressed herself against him.

  "I came back yesterday with my cousins." She was smiling at him. She had never smiled at him so warmly in the past. Her eyebrows had been shaved and penciled in, one thicker than the other. She turned to Anulika. "Anuli, I was on my way to see you. I hear you are getting married!"

  "My sister, it is what I hear too," Anulika said, and they both laughed.

  "Are you going back to Nsukka?" she asked Ugwu.

  "Yes. But I will come back soon, for Anulika's wine-carrying."

  "Go well." Nnesinachi's eyes met his briefly, boldly, before she walked on, and he knew he had not imagined it; she really had pressed herself against him when they hugged. He felt a rush of weakness to his legs. He held himself from turning back to look at her, just in case she turned as well, and for a moment he forgot the uncomfortable churning in his stomach.

  "Her eyes must have opened in the North. You can't marry her, so you had better take what she is offering, before she marries," Anulika said.

  "You noticed?"

  "How could I not have noticed? Do I look like a sheep?"

  Ugwu narrowed his eyes to look at her. "Has Onyeka touched you?"

  "Of course Onyeka has touched me."

  Ugwu slowed his pace. He knew she must have slept with Onyeka and yet he did not like her confirming it. When Chinyere, Dr. Okeke's housegirl, first started to sneak across the hedge to his Boys' Quarters for hasty thrusts in the dark, he had told Anulika about it during a visit home and they had discussed it. But they had never discussed her; he had always made himself assume that there was nothing to discuss. Anulika was walking ahead of him, unbothered by his sulky slowness, and he hurried up to her, silent, their steps light on the grass where they, as children, had hunted grasshoppers.

  "I'm so hungry," he said, finally.

  "You didn't even eat the yam Mama boiled."

  "We boil our yam with butter."

  "We boil our yam with boh-tah. Look at your mouth. When they send you back to the village, what will you do? Where will you find boh-tah to use to boil your yam?"

  "They won't send me back to the village."

  She looked at him from the corners of her eyes, up and down. "You have forgotten where you come from, and now you have become so foolish you think you are a Big Man."

  Master was in the living room when Ugwu came in and greeted him. "How are your people?" Master asked.

  "They are well, sah. They send greetings."

  "Very good."

  "My sister Anulika will be getting married soon."

  "I see." Master was focused on tuning the radio.

  Ugwu could hear Olanna and Baby singing in the bathroom.

  London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.

  Baby's London, in her tiny unformed voice, sounded like bonbon. The bathroom door was open.

  "Good evening, mah," Ugwu said.

  "Oh, Ugwu, I didn't hear you come in!" Olanna said. She was bent over the tub, giving Baby a bath. "Welcome, nno. Are your people well?"

  "Yes, mah. They send greetings. My mother said she cannot thank you enough for the wrappers."

  "How is her leg?"

  "It no longer aches. She gave me ukwa for you."

  "Eh! She must have known what I am craving now." She turned to look at him, her hands covered in bath foam. "You look well. See your fat cheeks!"

  "Yes, mah," Ugwu said, although it was a lie. He always lost weight when he visited home.

  "Ugwu!" Baby called. "Ugwu, come and see!" She was pressing a squawking plastic duck in her hand.

  "Baby, you can greet Ugwu after your bath," Olanna said.

  "Anulika will be getting married soon, mah. My father said I should let you and Master know. They do not have a date yet, but they will be very happy if you come."

  "Anulika? Is she not a little young? About sixteen-seventeen?"

  "Her mates have started to marry."

  Olanna turned back to the tub. "Of course we will come."

  "Ugwu!" Baby said again.

  "Shall I warm Baby's porridge, mah?"

  "Yes. And please make her milk."

  "Yes, mah." He wo
uld linger for a moment and then ask her if all had gone well in the week he was away, and she would tell him which friends had come, who had brought what, if they had finished the stew he had put in containers in the freezer.

  "Your master and I have decided that Arize should come here to have her baby in September," Olanna said.

  "That is good, mah," Ugwu said. "I hope the baby will resemble Aunty Arize and not Uncle Nnakwanze."

  Olanna laughed. "I hope so too. We will start cleaning the room in time. I want it to be spotless for her."

  "It will be spotless, mah, don't worry." Ugwu liked Aunty Arize. He remembered her wine-carrying ceremony in Umunnachi about three years ago, how plump and bubbly she had been and how he had drunk so much palm wine that he had nearly dropped the infant Baby.

  "I'm going to Kano on Monday to pick her up and take her shopping in Lagos," Olanna said. "I'll take Baby. We'll pack that blue dress Arize made for her."

  "The pink one is better, mah. The blue one is too tight."

  "That's true." Olanna picked up a plastic duck and threw it back into the tub, and Baby squealed and submerged it in the water.

  "Nkem!" Master called out. "O mego! It has happened!"

  Olanna hurried to the living room, Ugwu close behind.

  Master was standing by the radio. The television was on but the volume was off so that the dancing people looked as if they were swaying drunkenly. "There's been a coup," Master said, and gestured to the radio. "Major Nzeogwu is speaking from Kaduna."

  The voice on the radio was youthful, eager, confident.

  The Constitution is suspended and the regional government and elected assemblies are hereby dissolved. My dear countrymen, the aim of the Revolutionary Council is to establish a nation free from corruption and internal strife. Our enemies are the political profiteers, the swindlers, the men in high and low places that seek bribes and demand ten percent, those that seek to keep the country divided permanently so that they can remain in office, the tribalists, the nepotists, those that make the country look big for nothing before international circles, those that have corrupted our society.