Half of a Yellow Sun

That night, when her mother came into her room, Olanna smelled the floral Chloe perfume, a lovely scent, but she did not see why a person needed to wear perfume to bed. Her mother had too many bottles of perfume; they lined her dresser like a store shelf: stunted bottles, tapering bottles, rounded bottles. Even wearing them to bed every night, her mother could not use them all in fifty years.

“Thank you, nne,” she said. “Your father is already trying to make amends.”

“I see.” Olanna did not want to know just what it was her father had done to make amends but she felt an odd sense of accomplishment to have talked to her father like Kainene, to have got him to do something, to have been useful.

“Mrs. Nwizu will soon stop telephoning to tell me she saw him there,” her mother said. “She said something catty the other day about people whose daughters have refused to marry. I think she was throwing words at me and wanted to see if I would throw them back at her. Her daughter got married last year and they could not afford to import anything for the wedding. Even the wedding dress was made here in Lagos!” Her mother sat down. “By the way, there is somebody who wants to meet you. You know Igwe Onochie’s family? Their son is an engineer. I think he has seen you somewhere, and he is very interested.”

Olanna sighed and leaned back to listen to her mother.

She got back to Nsukka in the middle of the afternoon, that still hour when the sun was relentless and even the bees perched in quiet exhaustion. Odenigbo’s car was in the garage. Ugwu opened the door before she knocked, his shirt unbuttoned, slight sweat patches under his arms. “Welcome, mah,” he said.

“Ugwu.” She had missed his loyal smiling face. “Unu anokwa ofuma? Did you stay well?”

“Yes, mah,” he said, and went out to bring her luggage from the taxi.

Olanna walked in. She had missed the faint smell of detergent that lingered in the living room after Ugwu cleaned the louvers. Because she had imagined that Odenigbo’s mother was already gone, she was dampened to see her on the sofa, dressed, fussing with a bag. Amala stood nearby, holding a small metal box.

“Nkem!” Odenigbo said, and hurried forward. “It’s good to have you back! So good!”

When they hugged, his body did not relax against hers and the brief press of his lips felt papery. “Mama and Amala are just leaving. I’m taking them to the motor park,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Mama,” Olanna said, but did not make an attempt to go any closer.

“Olanna, kedu?” Mama asked. It was Mama who initiated their hug; it was Mama who smiled warmly. Olanna was puzzled but pleased. Perhaps Odenigbo had spoken to her about how serious their relationship was, and their planning to have a child had finally won Mama over.

“Amala, how are you?” Olanna asked. “I didn’t know you came too.”

“Welcome, Aunty,” Amala mumbled, looking down.

“Have you brought everything?” Odenigbo asked his mother. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

“Have you eaten, Mama?” Olanna asked.

“My morning meal is still heavy in my stomach,” Mama said. She had a happily speculative look on her face.

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“We have to go now,” Odenigbo said. “I have a scheduled game later.”

“What about you, Amala?” Olanna asked. Mama’s smiling face suddenly made her want them to stay a little longer. “I hope you ate something.”

“Yes, Aunty, thank you,” Amala said, her eyes still focused on the floor.

“Give Amala the key to put the things in the car,” Mama said to Odenigbo.

Odenigbo moved toward Amala, but stopped a little way away so that he had to stretch out and lengthen his arm to give her the key. She took it carefully from his fingers; they did not touch each other. It was a tiny moment, brief and fleeting, but Olanna noticed how scrupulously they avoided any contact, any touch of skin, as if they were united by a common knowledge so monumental that they were determined not to be united by anything else.

“Go well,” she said. She watched the car ease out of the compound and stood there, telling herself she was mistaken; there had been nothing in that gesture. But it bothered her. She felt something similar to what she had felt while waiting for the gynecologist: convinced that something was wrong with her body and yet willing him to tell her that all was well.

“Mah, will you eat? Should I warm rice?” Ugwu asked.

“Not now.” For a moment she wanted to ask Ugwu if he too had observed that gesture, if he had observed anything at all. “Go and see if any avocados are ripe.”

“Yes, mah.” Ugwu hesitated ever so slightly before he left.

She stood at the front door until Odenigbo came back. She was not sure what the shriveling in her stomach and the racing in her chest meant. She opened the door and searched his face.

“Did anything happen?” she asked.