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

‘What happened?’

‘I saw him on the road near my faculty building, and there was an expression on his face that really annoyed me, so I followed him back to Imoke Street and told him off.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t want to tell me.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Was anybody else there?’

‘His houseboy came out.’

They sat on the sofa in the living room. He had no right to harass Richard, to direct his anger at Richard, and yet she understood why he had.

‘I never blamed Amala,’ she said. ‘It was to you that I had given my trust and the only way a stranger could tamper with that trust was with your permission. I blamed only you.’

Odenigbo placed his hand on her thigh.

‘You should be angry with me, not with Richard,’ she said.

He was silent for so long that she thought he was not going to respond and then he said, ‘I want to be angry with you.’

His defencelessness moved her. She knelt down before him and unbuttoned his shirt to suck the soft-firm flesh of his belly. She felt his intake of breath when she touched his trousers’ zipper. In her mouth, he was swollen stiff. The faint ache in her lower jaw, the pressure of his widespread hands on her head, excited her, and afterwards she said, ‘Goodness, Ugwu must have seen us.’

He led her to the bedroom. They undressed silently and showered together, pressing against each other in the narrow bathroom and then clinging together in bed, their bodies still wet and their movements slow. She marvelled at the comforting compactness of his weight on top of her. His breath smelt of brandy and she wanted to tell him how it was almost like old times again, but she didn’t because she was sure he felt the same way and she did not want to ruin the silence that united them.

She waited until he fell asleep, his arm flung over her, his snoring loud through parted lips, before she got up to call Kainene. She had to make sure that Richard had said nothing to Kainene. She didn’t really think that Odenigbo’s shouting would have rattled him into confessing but she could not be entirely sure.

‘Kainene, it’s me,’ she said, when Kainene picked up the phone.

‘Ejima m,’ Kainene said. Olanna could not remember the last time Kainene had called her my twin. It warmed her, as did Kainene’s unchanged voice, the dry-toned drawl that suggested speaking to Olanna was the slightest of bothers, but a bother all the same.

‘I wanted to say kedu,’ Olanna said.

‘I’m well. Do you know what time it is?’

‘I didn’t realize it was so late.’

‘Are you back with the revolutionary lover?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should have heard Mum talking about him. He’s given her perfect ammunition this time.’

‘He made a mistake,’ Olanna said, and then wished she hadn’t because she didn’t want Kainene to think she was excusing Odenigbo.

‘Isn’t it against the tenets of socialism, though, impregnating people of the lower classes?’ Kainene asked.

‘I’ll let you sleep.’

There was a slight pause, before Kainene said, with an amused tone, ‘Ngwanu. Good night.’

Olanna put the phone down. She should have known that Richard would not tell Kainene; his own relationship with her might not survive it. And perhaps it was best that he would no longer visit in the evenings.

Amala had a baby girl. It was a Saturday and Olanna was making banana fritters with Ugwu in the kitchen, and when the doorbell rang, she knew right away that a message had come from Mama.

Odenigbo came to the kitchen door, his hands held behind his back. ‘O mu nwanyi,’ he said quietly. ‘She had a girl. Yesterday.’

Olanna did not look up from the bowl smeared with mashed bananas because she did not want him to see her face. She did not know how it would look, if it could capture the cruel mix of emotions she felt, the desire to cry and slap him and steel herself all at once.

‘We should go to Enugu this afternoon to see that everything is fine,’ she said briskly, and stood up. ‘Ugwu, please finish.’

‘Yes, mah.’ Ugwu was watching her; she felt the responsibility of an actress whose family members expected the best performance.

‘Thank you, nkem,’ Odenigbo said. He placed his arm around her, but she shrugged it off.

‘Let me take a quick bath.’

In the car, they were silent. He looked across at her often, as if he wanted to say something but did not know how to begin. She kept her eyes straight ahead and glanced at him only once, at the tentative way he held the steering wheel. She felt morally superior to him. Perhaps it was unearned and false, to think she was better than he was, but it was the only way she could keep her disparate emotions together, now that his child with a stranger was born.

He finally spoke as he parked in front of the hospital.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

Olanna opened the car door. ‘About my cousin Arize. She hasn’t even been married a year and she is desperate to get pregnant.’

Odenigbo said nothing. Mama met them at the entrance of the maternity ward. Olanna had expected Mama to dance and look at her with mocking eyes, but the lined face was dour, the smile as she hugged Odenigbo was strained. Chemical hospital smells were thick in the air.

‘Mama, kedu?’ Olanna asked. She wanted to seem in control, to determine how things would proceed.

‘I am well,’ Mama said.

‘Where is the baby?’

Mama looked surprised by her briskness. ‘In the newborn ward.’

‘Let’s see Amala first,’ Olanna said.

Mama led them to a cubicle. The bed was covered in a yellowed sheet and Amala lay on it with her face to the wall. Olanna pulled her eyes away from the slight swell of her belly; it was newly unbearable, the thought that Odenigbo’s baby had been in that body. She focused on the biscuits, glucose tin, and glass of water on the side table.

‘Amala, they have come,’ Mama said.

‘Good afternoon, nno,’ Amala said, without turning to face them.

‘How are you?’ Odenigbo and Olanna asked, almost at the same time.