Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection

‘It is better they do it now, before war comes, if war is going to come.’

‘That is true.’ Ugwu looked away, towards the lemon tree. ‘So. Anulika is really getting married.’

‘Did you think you would marry your own sister?’

‘God forbid.’

His aunty reached out and pinched his arm. ‘Look at you, a man has emerged. Eh! In a few years it will be your turn.’

Ugwu smiled. ‘It is you and my mother who will find a good person when the time comes, Aunty,’ he said, with a false demureness. There was no point in telling her that Olanna had told him they would send him to university when he finished secondary school. He would not marry until he had become like Master, until he had spent many years reading books.

‘I am going,’ his aunty said.

‘Won’t you drink some water?’

‘I cannot stay. Ngwanu, let it be. Greet your master and give him my message.’

Even before his aunty left, Ugwu was already imagining his arrival for the ceremony. This time, he would finally hold Nnesinachi naked and pliant in his arms. His Uncle Eze’s hut was a good place to take her, or perhaps even the quiet grove by the stream, as long as the little children did not bother them. He hoped she would not be silent like Chinyere; he hoped she would make the same sounds he heard from Olanna when he pressed his ear to the bedroom door.

That evening, while he was cooking dinner, a quiet voice on the radio announced that Nigeria would embark on a police action to bring back the rebels of Biafra.

Ugwu was in the kitchen with Olanna, peeling onions, watching the movement of Olanna’s shoulder as she stirred the soup on the stove. Onions made him feel cleaned up, as if the tears they drew from him took away impurities. He could hear Baby’s high voice in the living room, playing with Master. He did not want either of them to come into the kitchen now. They would destroy the magic he felt, the sweet sting of onions in his eyes, the glow of Olanna’s skin. She was talking about the Northerners in Onitsha who had been killed in reprisal attacks. He liked the way reprisal attacks came out of her mouth.

‘It’s so wrong,’ she said. ‘So wrong. But His Excellency has handled it all well; God knows how many would have been killed if he did not have the Northern soldiers sent back to the North.’

‘Ojukwu is a great man.’

‘Yes, he is, but we are all capable of doing the same things to one another, really.’

‘No, mah. We are not like those Hausa people. The reprisal killings happened because they pushed us.’ His reprisal killings had come out sounding close to hers, he was sure.

Olanna shook her head but said nothing for a while. ‘After your sister’s wine-carrying, we will go to Abba to spend some time there since the campus is so empty,’ she said finally. ‘You can stay with your people if you want to. We will come back for you when we return; we won’t be gone for more than a month, at the most. Our soldiers will drive the Nigerians back in a week or two.’

‘I will come with you and Master, mah.’

Olanna smiled, as if she had wanted him to say that. ‘This soup is not thickening at all,’ she muttered. Then she told him about the first time she cooked soup as a young girl, how she managed to burn the bottom of the pot to a charred purple and yet the soup turned out very tasty. He was absorbed in Olanna’s voice and so he did not hear the sound – boom-boom-boom – from somewhere distant outside the windows, until she stopped stirring and looked up.

‘What is that?’ she asked. ‘Do you hear it, Ugwu? What is it?’

Olanna dropped the ladle and ran into the living room. Ugwu followed. Master was standing by the window, holding a folded copy of the Biafran Sun.

‘What is that?’ Olanna asked. She pulled Baby to her. ‘Odenigbo!’

‘They are advancing,’ Master said calmly. ‘I think we should plan on leaving today.’

Then Ugwu heard the loud honk of a car outside. Suddenly he was afraid to go to the door, even to go to the window and peek out.

Master opened the door. The green Morris Minor had parked so hurriedly that one tyre was outside the driveway, crushing the lilies that bordered the lawn; when the man came out of the car, Ugwu was shocked to see that he was only wearing a singlet and trousers. And bathroom slippers too!

‘Evacuate now! The federals have entered Nsukka! We are evacuating now! Right now! I am going to all the houses still occupied. Evacuate now!’

It was after he had spoken and rushed back into his car and driven off, honking continuously, that Ugwu recognized him: Mr Vincent Ikenna, the registrar. He had visited a few times. He drank his beer with Fanta.

‘Get a few things together, nkem,’ Master said. ‘I’ll check the water in the car. Ugwu, lock up quick! Don’t forget the Boys’ Quarters.’

‘Gini? What things?’ Olanna asked. ‘What will I take?’

Baby started to cry. There was the sound again, boom-boom-boom, closer and louder.

‘It won’t be for long, we’ll be back soon. Just take a few things, clothes.’ Master gestured vaguely before he grabbed the car keys from the shelf.

‘I’m still cooking,’ Olanna said.

‘Put it in the car,’ Master said.

Olanna looked dazed; she wrapped the pot of soup in a dishcloth and took it out to the car. Ugwu ran around throwing things into bags: Baby’s clothes and toys, biscuits from the fridge, his clothes, Master’s clothes, Olanna’s wrappers and dresses. He wished he knew what to take. He wished that sound did not seem even closer. He dumped the bags in the backseat of the car and dashed back inside to lock the doors and close the window louvres. Master was honking outside. He stood in the middle of the living room, feeling dizzy. He needed to urinate. He ran into the kitchen and turned the stove off. Master was shouting his name. He took the albums from the shelves, the three photo albums Olanna so carefully put together, and ran out to the car. He had hardly shut the car door when Master drove off. The campus streets were eerie; silent and empty.

At the gates, Biafran soldiers were waving cars through. They looked distinguished in their khaki uniforms, boots shining, half of a yellow sun sewn on their sleeves. Ugwu wished he was one of them. Master waved and said, ‘Well done!’

Dust swirled all around, like a see-through brown blanket. The main road was crowded; women with boxes on their heads and babies tied to their backs, barefoot children carrying bundles of clothes or yams or boxes, men dragging bicycles. Ugwu wondered why they were holding lit kerosene lanterns although it was not yet dark. He saw a little child stumble and fall and the mother bend and yank him up, and he thought about home, about his little cousins and his parents and Anulika. They were safe. They would not have to run because their village was too remote. This only meant that he would not see Anulika get married, that he would not hold Nnesinachi in his arms as he had planned. But he would be back soon. The war would last just long enough for the Biafran army to gas the Nigerians to kingdom come. He would yet taste Nnesinachi’s sweetness, he would yet caress that soft flesh.

Master drove slowly because of the crowds and roadblocks, but slowest when they got to Milliken Hill. The lorry ahead of them had no one knows tomorrow printed on its body. As it crawled up the steep incline, a young man jumped out and ran alongside, carrying a wood block, ready to throw it behind the back tyre if the lorry were to roll back.

When they finally arrived at Abba, it was dusk, the windscreen was coated in ochre dust, and Baby was asleep.

16 (#u3c1576f1-c916-57b7-bb43-a63c028a7109)

Richard was surprised when he heard the announcement that the federal government had declared a police action to bring the rebelsto order. Kainene was not.

‘It’s the oil,’ she said. ‘They can’t let us go easily with all that oil. But the war will be brief. Madu says Ojukwu has big plans. He suggested I donate some foreign exchange to the war cabinet, so that when this ends, I’ll get any contract I bid for.’

Richard stared at her. She did not seem to understand that he could not comprehend a war at all, brief or not.

‘It’s best if you move your things to Port Harcourt until we drive the Nigerians back,’ Kainene said. She was scanning a newspaper and nodding her head to the Beatles on the stereo and she made it seem normal, that war was the inevitable outcome of events and that moving his things from Nsukka was simply as it should be.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said.

Her driver took him. Checkpoints had sprung up everywhere, tyres and nail-studded boards placed across the road, men and women in khaki shirts with expressionless, disciplined demeanours standing by. The first two were easy to pass. ‘Where are you going?’ they asked, and waved the car through. But near Enugu, the civil defenders had blocked the road with tree trunks and old rusty drums. The driver stopped.

‘Turn back! Turn back!’ A man peered through the window; he was holding a long piece of wood carefully carved to look like a rifle. ‘Turn back!’

‘Good afternoon,’ Richard said. ‘I work at the university in Nsukka and I am on my way there. My houseboy is there. I have to get my manuscript and some personal belongings.’

‘Turn back, sah. We will drive the vandals back soon.’

‘But my manuscript and my papers and my houseboy are there. You see, I didn’t take anything. I didn’t know.’

‘Turn back, sah. That is our order. It is not safe. But soon, when we drive the vandals back, you can return.’