Half of a Yellow Sun

“Eh?” Master said and they hugged and pressed their lips, their faces, close together as though inhaling each other’s breath.

Then Master took the radio and tuned it. “Let’s make sure. Let’s hear it from others.”

Voice of America was reporting it, as was French radio, which Olanna translated: Tanzania was the first country to recognize the existence of the independent nation of Biafra. Finally, Biafra existed. Ugwu tickled Baby and she laughed.

“Nyerere will go down in history as a man of truth,” Master said. “Of course, many other countries want to recognize us but they won’t because of America. America is the stumbling block!”

Ugwu was not sure how America was to blame for other countries not recognizing Biafra—he thought Britain really was to blame—but he repeated Master’s words to Eberechi that afternoon, with authority, as though they were his. It was hot and he found her asleep on a mat in the shade of their veranda.

“Eberechi, Eberechi,” he said.

She sat up with the red-eyed, wounded look of a person jerked from sleep. But she smiled when she saw him. “Teacher, have you finished for today?”

“You heard that Tanzania has recognized us?”

“Yes, yes.” She rubbed her eyes and laughed, a happy sound that made Ugwu happier.

“America is the reason many other countries will not recognize us; America is the stumbling block,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. They were sitting side by side on the stairs. “We got double good news today. My aunty is now the provincial representative of Caritas. She said she will give me a job at the relief center in St. John’s. It means I will get extra stockfish!”

She reached out and playfully pinched the skin of his neck, a gentle pressure between her fingers. He looked at her. He not only wanted to squeeze her naked buttocks, he also wanted to wake up next to her and know he would sleep next to her every day, wanted to talk to her and listen to her laughter. She was nothing like Chinyere, a fond convenience, but rather like a real Nnesinachi, one he had come to care for because of what she said and did, and not what he imagined she would say and do. He was welling up with a surge of recognition and wanted to say, over and over, that he loved her. He loved her. But he didn’t. They sat and praised Tanzania and dreamed about stockfish and were still talking desultorily when a Peugeot 403 sped across the street. It reversed, in loud screeches, as if the driver wanted to make as much of an impression as possible, and stopped in front of the house. BIAFRAN ARMY was roughly handwritten on it in red paint. A soldier climbed out, holding a gun, wearing a uniform so smart that the lines of ironing were visible down the front. Eberechi stood up as he walked up to them.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Are you Eberechi?”

She nodded. “Is it about my brother? Has something happened to my brother?”

“No, no.” There was a knowing leer on his face that Ugwu in stantly disliked. “Major Nwogu is calling you. He is at the bar down the road.”

“Oh!” Eberechi left her mouth open, her hand on her chest. “I am coming, I am coming.” She turned and ran indoors. Ugwu felt betrayed by her excitement. The soldier was staring at him.

“Good afternoon,” Ugwu said.

“Who are you?” the soldier asked. “Are you an idle civilian?”

“I am a teacher.”

“A teacher? Onye nkuzi?” He swung his gun back and forth.

“Yes,” Ugwu responded in English. “We organize classes in this neighborhood and teach the young ones the ideals of the Biafran cause.” He hoped his English sounded like Olanna’s; he hoped, too, that his affectation would frighten this soldier into not asking him any more questions.

“Which classes?” the soldier asked, in a near mumble. He looked both impressed and uncertain.

“We focus on civics and mathematics and English. The Director of Mobilization has sponsored our efforts.”

The soldier stared.

Eberechi hurried out; her face wore a thin coat of white powder, her eyebrows were darkened, her lips a red gash.

“Let’s go,” she said to the soldier. Then she bent and whispered to Ugwu, “I am coming. If they look for me, please say I went to get something from Ngozi’s house.”

“Okay, Mr. Teacher! See you!” the soldier said and Ugwu thought he saw a glimmer of triumph in his eyes, the illiterate fool. Ugwu could not bear to watch them go; he studied his nails instead. The mix of hurt and confusion and embarrassment weakened him. He could not believe she had just asked him to lie for her while she ran off to see a man she had never mentioned to him. His legs were sluggish as he walked across the

road. Everything he did for the rest of the day was colored with a bitter dye, and he thought, more than once, about walking down to the bar to see what was going on.

It was dark when she knocked on the back door.