“I saw you in school some time ago. I even asked Kay about you,” he said.
“Are you serious?”
“I saw you holding a James Hadley Chase, near the lab. And I said, Ah, correct, there is hope. She reads.”
“I think I’ve read them all.”
“Me too. What’s your favorite?”
“Miss Shumway Waves a Wand.”
“Mine is Want to Stay Alive? I stayed up one night to finish it.”
“Yes, I like that too.”
“What about other books? Which of the classics do you like?”
“Classics, kwa? I just like crime and thrillers. Sheldon, Ludlum, Archer.”
“But you also have to read proper books.”
She looked at him, amused by his earnestness. “Aje-butter! University boy! That must be what your professor mother taught you.”
“No, seriously.” He paused. “I’ll give you some to try. I love the American ones.”
“You have to read proper books,” she mimicked.
“What about poetry?”
“What’s that last one we did in class, ‘Ancient Mariner’? So boring.”
Obinze laughed, and Ifemelu, uninterested in pursuing the subject of poetry, asked, “So what did Kayode say about me?”
“Nothing bad. He likes you.”
“You don’t want to tell me what he said.”
“He said, ‘Ifemelu is a fine babe but she is too much trouble. She can argue. She can talk. She never agrees. But Ginika is just a sweet girl.’ ” He paused, then added, “He didn’t know that was exactly what I hoped to hear. I’m not interested in girls that are too nice.”
“Ahn-ahn! Are you insulting me?” She nudged him, in mock anger. She had always liked this image of herself as too much trouble, as different, and she sometimes thought of it as a carapace that kept her safe.
“You know I’m not insulting you.” He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him gently; it was the first time their bodies had met and she felt herself stiffen. “I thought you were so fine, but not just that. You looked like the kind of person who will do something because you want to, and not because everyone else is doing it.”
She rested her head against his and felt, for the first time, what she would often feel with him: a self-affection. He made her like herself. With him, she was at ease; her skin felt as though it was her right size. She told him how she very much wanted God to exist but feared He did not, how she worried that she should know what she wanted to do with her life but did not even know what she wanted to study at university. It seemed so natural, to talk to him about odd things. She had never done that before. The trust, so sudden and yet so complete, and the intimacy, frightened her. They had known nothing of each other only hours ago, and yet, there had been a knowledge shared between them in those moments before they danced, and now she could think only of all the things she yet wanted to tell him, wanted to do with him. The similarities in their lives became good omens: that they were both only children, their birthdays two days apart, and their hometowns in Anambra State. He was from Abba and she was from Umunnachi and the towns were minutes away from each other.
“Ahn-ahn! One of my uncles goes to your village all the time!” he told her. “I’ve been a few times with him. You people have terrible roads.”
“I know Abba. The roads are worse.”
“How often do you go to your village?”
“Every Christmas.”
“Just once a year! I go very often with my mother, at least five times a year.”
“But I bet I speak Igbo better than you.”
“Impossible,” he said, and switched to Igbo. “Ama m atu inu. I even know proverbs.”