Half of a Yellow Sun

by Ngozi Adichie Chimamanda

  Even if it cost me my life, I was determined to read. Keep the black man away from the books, keep us ignorant, and we would always be his slaves.

  High-Tech liked to sit next to him while he read. Sometimes he would hum Biafran songs in an annoying monotone, and other times he would chatter about this and that. Ugwu ignored him. But one afternoon the women did not bring any food, and a whole day went by with the grumbling of men. High-Tech nudged Ugwu at night and held out a tin of sardines. Ugwu grasped it. High-Tech laughed. "We have to share it," he said and Ugwu wondered how he managed to get it, how a child so young seemed so flexibly in control. They went to the back of the building and shared the oily fish.

  "The vandals eat well, oh!" High-Tech said. "The last camp I infiltrated, when I was with the battalion at Nteje, their women were cooking soup with big-big pieces of meat. They even gave some to our men when they stopped fighting for one week to celebrate Easter."

  "They stopped fighting to celebrate Easter?" Ugwu asked.

  High-Tech looked pleased to have finally caught his attention. "Yes. They even played cards together and drank whisky Sometimes they agree not to fight so that everybody will rest." High-Tech glanced at Ugwu and laughed. "Your haircut is so ugly."

  Ugwu touched his head, with the odd tufts of hair that the jagged glass had missed. "Yes."

  "It is because they shaved it dry," High-Tech said. "I can do it better for you with a razor and soap."

  High-Tech produced a bar of green soap and lathered Ugwu's head and shaved it with a razor blade until it was smooth and soft to the touch. Later, when High-Tech told him, "Operation in two days," in a whisper, Ugwu thought about the people who shaved their hair off as an act of mourning. Shaving as a memorial to death. He lay face up on his thin mattress and listened to the ugly sounds of snoring around him. He had proved himself to the other men by how well he did at training, how he scaled the obstacles and shimmied up the rough rope, but he had made no friend. He said very little. He did not want to know their stories. It was better to leave each man's load unopened, undisturbed, in his own mind. He thought about the upcoming operation, about blowing up vandals with his ogbunigwe, about Professor Ekwenugo's blown-up body. He imagined himself getting up in the moonlit quiet, leaping out, running until he got back to the yard in Umuahia and greeted Master and Olanna and hugged Baby But he would not even try, he knew, because a part of him wanted to be here.

  In the trench, the earth felt like soaked bread. Ugwu lay still. A spider clambered up his arm but he did not slap it away. The darkness was black, complete, and Ugwu imagined the spider's hairy legs, its surprise to find not cold underground soil but warm human flesh. The moon floated out once in a while, and the thick trees ahead became dimly outlined. The vandals were somewhere there. Ugwu hoped for a little more light; the moon had been more generous earlier when he buried his ogbunigwe about thirty yards ahead. Now the darkness brooded. The cable felt cold in his hand. Next to him, a soldier was mumbling prayers in the softest voice, so soft that Ugwu felt he was whispering in his ear. "Mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death." He shook the spider off and stood up when the vandals started shooting. The rattle of gunfire was scattered, loud then faint; the infantry was returning the vandals' fire from different directions and those vandals, those dirty cattle rearers, would be confused and would have no idea that the ogbunigwe mines were waiting for them.

  Ugwu thought of Eberechi's fingers pulling the skin of his neck, the wetness of her tongue in his mouth. The vandals began to shell. There was first the whistle of a mortar in the air and then the boom as the mortar fell and hot shrapnel flew around. A patch of grass caught fire, lit up, and Ugwu saw a ferret by the cluster of trees ahead, hunched like a giant tortoise. Then he saw them: crouched silhouettes moving forward, a herd of men. They were in his killing range and it felt too soon, he had expected more to happen before they delivered themselves to him, before he detonated his ogbunigwe and it pushed outward in a spray of violent metal. He took a deep breath. Carefully, firmly, he connected the cable and the plug in his hands and the immediate forceful blow-up startled him, although he had expected it. For the briefest moment, fear clenched his bowels. Perhaps he had not calculated well enough. Perhaps he had missed them. But he heard somebody close to him shout, "Target!" The word reverberated in his head as they waited for long minutes before hauling themselves out of the trench and going over to the scattered corpses of the vandals.

  "Naked them! Take the trousers and shirts!" somebody shouted.

  "Boots and guns only!" another voice shouted. "No time. No time. Ngwa-ngwa! Their reinforcements are on the way!"

  Ugwu bent over a lean body. He yanked off the boots. In the pockets, he felt a cold hard kola nut and warm thick blood. The second body, close by, stirred when Ugwu touched it and he moved back. There was a forced gasping breath before it became still. Ugwu shivered. Beside him, a soldier held up a few guns and was shouting.

  "Let's go!" Ugwu called out, wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers.

  The others thumped him on the back and called him "Target Destroyer!" as they trooped to headquarters to hand in their cables.

  "You learn this from that book you read?" they teased. Success hauled him up above the ground. He floated through the following days as they played Biafran whot and drank gin and waited for the next operation. He lay face up on the ground while High-Tech rolled up some wee-wee, the leaves crisply dried, in old paper and they smoked together. He preferred Mars cigarettes; the wee-wee made him feel disjointed, created a thin slice of space between his legs and hips. They didn't bother to hide their smoking because the commander was happy and the news was hope-filled now that Biafra had recaptured Owerri from the vandals. Rules relaxed; they could go out to the bar near the expressway.

  "It's a long walk," somebody said, and High-Tech laughed and said, "We will commandeer a car, of course."

  When High-Tech laughed, Ugwu remembered he was a child. Only thirteen. Among nine men he looked incongruously small, Ugwu thought, as they walked along. The sound of rubber slippers echoed on the silent road. Two of them were barefoot. They waited awhile before a dusty Volkswagen Beetle drove toward them and then spread across the road and blocked it. The car stopped, and a few of them banged on the bonnet.

  "Get out! Bloody civilians!"

  The man who was driving looked stern, as if determined to show that he could not be intimidated. Beside him, his wife began to cry and plead. "Please, we are going to look for our son."

  A soldier was violently hitting the bonnet of the car. "We need this for an operation!"

  "Please, please, we are going to look for our son. They told us he was seen in the refugee camp." The woman stared at High-Tech for a while, her brows furrowed. Perhaps she thought he might be her son.

  "We are dying for you and you are here driving a pleasure car?" a soldier asked, pulling her out of the car. Her husband climbed out himself, but still stood by the car. His fist was tight with the key inside.

  "This is wrong, officers. You have no right to take this car. I have my pass. I am working for our government."

  One of the soldiers slapped him. The man staggered and the soldier slapped him again and again and again and he crashed to the ground and the key slipped out of his hand.

  "It is enough!" Ugwu said.

  Another soldier touched the man's neck and wrist to make sure he was breathing. The wife was bent over her husband as the soldiers squashed into the car and drove to the bar.

  The bar girl greeted them and said there was no beer.

  "Are you sure you don't have beer? Are you hiding it because you think we will not pay you?" one of the soldiers said to her.

  "No, there is no beer." She was thin and sharp-featured and unsmiling.

  "We destroyed the enemy!" he said. "Give us beer!"

  "She has said there is no beer," Ugwu snapped. The soldier's loudness annoyed him; this was a man who had abandoned his ogbunigwe and run off long
before the vandals were close. "Let her bring kai-kai"

  As the girl set out the local gin and small metal cups, the soldiers talked about the Nigerian officers, about how they would hang Dan-juma, Adekunle, and Gowon upside down after Biafra 's victory. High-Tech began to roll some wee-wee. Ugwu thought he made out something familiar on an unrolled portion of paper, the word narrative, but it could not be. He looked again. "What paper is that?" he asked.

  "It is only the first page of your book." High-Tech smiled and offered Ugwu the joint.

  Ugwu did not take it. "You tore my book?"

  "It is only the first page. My paper finished."

  Rage pumped through Ugwu. His slap was swift, powerful, furious, but High-Tech avoided the full impact because he moved back at the last second and Ugwu's hand only scraped his cheek. Ugwu raised his hand again but the other soldiers held him, dragged him away, said it was just a book after all, told him to drink some more gin.

  "Sorry," High-Tech mumbled.

  Ugwu's head ached. Everything was moving so fast. He was not living his life; life was living him. He drank steadily and watched the others, their mouths opening and closing, rancid jibes and conceited boasts and magnified memories coming out of them. Soon the bar itself, the benches placed around a table, became a sour-scented blur. The bar girl changed the bottles one after the other; Ugwu thought the gin was probably brewed in their backyard down the road. He got up to urinate outside and, afterward, leaned against a tree and breathed in the fresh air. It was like sitting in the backyard in Nsukka, looking at the lemon tree and his herb garden and Jomo's manicured plants. He stayed there for a while until he heard loud shouts from the bar. Perhaps somebody had won some bet or other. They tired him. The war tired him. When he finally went back inside, he stopped at the door. The bar girl was lying on her back on the floor, her wrapper bunched up at her waist, her shoulders held down by a soldier, her legs wide, wide ajar. She was sobbing, "Please, please, biko." Her blouse was still on. Between her legs, High-Tech was moving. His thrusts were jerky, his small buttocks darker-colored than his legs. The soldiers were cheering.

  "High-Tech, enough! Discharge and retire!"

  High-Tech groaned before he collapsed on top of her. A soldier pulled him off and was fumbling at his own trousers when somebody said, "No! Target Destroyer is next!"

  Ugwu backed away from the door.

  "Ujo abiala o! Target Destroyer is afraid!"

  Ugwu shrugged and moved forward. "Who is afraid?" he said disdainfully. "I just like to eat before others, that is all."

  "The food is still fresh!"

  "Target Destroyer, aren't you a man? I bukwa nwoke?"

  On the floor, the girl was still. Ugwu pulled his trousers down, surprised at the swiftness of his erection. She was dry and tense when he entered her. He did not look at her face, or at the man pinning her down, or at anything at all as he moved quickly and felt his own climax, the rush of fluids to the tips of himself: a self-loathing release. He zipped up his trousers while some soldiers clapped. Finally he looked at the girl. She stared back at him with a calm hate.

  There were more operations. Ugwu's fear sometimes overwhelmed him, froze him. He unwrapped his mind from his body, separated the two, while he lay in the trench, pressing himself into the mud, luxuriating in how close and connected he was to the mud. The ka-ka-ka of shooting, the cries of men, the smell of death, the blasts of explosions above and around him were distant. But back at the camp his memory became clear; he remembered the man who placed both hands on his blown-open belly as though to hold his intestines in, the one who mumbled something about his son before he stiffened. And, after each operation, everything became new. Ugwu looked at his daily wrap of garri in wonder. He read pages of his book over and over. He touched his own skin and thought of its decay.

  One afternoon, the commander's jeep drove in with a sickly goat lying on its side, legs tied together. It had been commandeered from an idle civilian. It bleated meekly and the soldiers gathered, excited at the thought of meat. Two of them killed it and made a fire and when the large-cut chunks had been cooked, the commander asked that all of it be brought to his quarters. He spent long minutes checking through the basin to make sure the goat was complete: the legs, the head, the balls. Later, two village women came and were taken in to the commander's quarters; much later, the soldiers threw stones at them as they left. Ugwu dreamed that the commander had given half of the goat to the soldiers and that they had chewed everything and swallowed the bones.

  When he woke up, a radio was turned on high and High-Tech was sobbing. Umuahia had fallen. Biafra 's capital was lost. A soldier threw his hands up and said, "That goat, that goat was a bad omen! All is lost! We have to surrender!" The other soldiers were subdued. Even the commander's saying that he was aware of a secret counterattack plan to recover Umuahia did not lift their spirits. But the announcement that His Excellency would be visiting did. The soldiers swept the compound, washed their clothes, lined themselves on benches to welcome him. When the convoy of jeeps and Pontiacs drove into the compound, they all stood up and saluted.

  Ugwu's salute was slack, because he was worried about Olanna and Master and Baby in Umuahia, because he was not interested in His Excellency, because he did not care for the commander. He did not care for any of the officers, with their superior sneers and the way they treated their soldiers like sheep. But there was a captain he admired, a solitary and disciplined man called Ohaeto. And so the day that Ugwu found himself in the trench next to Captain Ohaeto, he was determined to impress him. The trench was not wet; there were more ants than spiders. Ugwu could tell that the vandals were closer, from the clatter of gunfire and the boom of mortars. But there was not enough light to see for certain. He really wanted to impress Captain Ohaeto; if only the light were not so poor. He was about to connect the cable and plug when something whistled past his ear and then, right afterward, a stinging pain burned into his back. Beside him, Captain Ohaeto was a bloodied, mangled mass. Then Ugwu felt himself lifted up above the trench, helplessly, haplessly. And when he landed, it was the force of his own weight, rather than the pain firing up his whole body that stunned him into silence.

  30

  Richard shifted as far away as he could from the two American journalists in the car, pressing himself against the door of the Peugeot. He really should have sat in front and asked the orderly to sit in back with them. But he had not imagined that they would smell so bad, Charles the plump one wearing a squashed hat and Charles the redhead with his chin covered in ginger hair.

  "One Midwestern and one New York journalist coming to Biafra, and we're both named Charles. What were the odds?" the plump one said, laughing, after they introduced themselves. "And both our moms call us Chuck!"

  Richard was not sure how long they had waited before boarding their flight at Lisbon, but the wait at Sao Tome for a relief flight to Biafra had stretched to seventeen hours. They needed a bath. When the plump one, sitting next to Richard, began to talk about his first visit to Biafra at the beginning of the war, Richard thought he needed mouthwash, too.

  "I came in a real plane and we landed at Port Harcourt airport," he said. "But this time I was sitting on the floor of a plane flying with no lights, alongside twenty tons of dried milk. We flew so fucking low, I looked out and could see the orange bursts of the Nigerian antiaircraft. I was scared shitless." He laughed, his fat-padded face broad and pleasant.

  The redhead did not laugh. "We don't know for sure that it was Nigerian fire. The Biafrans could have put it on."

  "Oh, come on!" The plump one glanced at Richard, but Richard kept his face straight. "Of course it was Nigerian fire."

  "The Biafrans are mixing up food and guns in their planes, anyway," the redhead said. He turned to Richard. "Aren't they?"

  Richard disliked him. He disliked his washed-out green eyes and his red-freckled face. When he had met them at the airport and handed them their passes and told them he would be their guide and that the Biaf
ran government welcomed them, he had disliked the redhead's expression of scornful amusement. It was as if he were saying, You are speaking for the Biafrans?

  "Our relief planes carry only food supplies," Richard said.

  "Of course," the redhead said. "Only food supplies."

  The plump one leaned across Richard to look out of the window. "I can't believe people are driving cars and walking around. It's not like there's a war going on."

  "Until an air raid happens," Richard said. He had moved his face back and was holding his breath.

  "Is it possible to see where the Biafran soldiers shot the Italian oil worker?" the redhead asked. "We've done something on that at the Tribune, but I'd like to do a longer feature."

  "No, it's not possible," Richard said sharply.

  The redhead was watching him. "Okay. But can you tell me anything new?"

  Richard exhaled. It was like somebody sprinkling pepper on his wound: Thousands of Biafrans were dead, and this man wanted to know if there was anything new about one dead white man. Richard would write about this, the rule of Western journalism: One hundred dead black people equal one dead white person. "There is nothing new to tell," he said. "The area is occupied now."