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Ola
"So how is Odenigbo?" her mother asked finally.
"He's fine."
Her mother sighed, in the overdone way that meant she wished Ola
"I have never been surer of anything."
"But will you be comfortable there?" Her mother said comfortable with a faint shudder, and Ola
"I'll be fine," she said.
"You can find work here in Lagos and travel down to see him during weekends."
"I don't want to work in Lagos. I want to work in the university, and I want to live with him."
Her mother looked at her for a little while longer before she stood up and said, "Good night, my daughter," in a voice that was small and wounded.
Ola
She was almost asleep when Kainene knocked. "So will you be spreading your legs for that elephant in exchange for Daddy's contract?" Kainene asked.
Ola
"Daddy literally pulled me away from the veranda, so we could leave you alone with the good cabinet minister," Kainene said. "Will he give Daddy the contract then?"
"He didn't say. But it's not as if he will get nothing. Daddy will still give him ten percent, after all."
"The ten percent is standard, so extras always help. The other bidders probably don't have a beautiful daughter." Kainene dragged the word out until it sounded cloying, sticky: beau-ti-ful. She was flipping through the copy of Lagos Life, her silk robe tied tight around her ski
"They're not using me as sex bait."
Kainene did not respond for a while; she seemed focused on an article in the paper. Then she looked up. "Richard is going to Nsukka too. He's received the grant, and he's going to write his book there."
"Oh, good. So that means you will be spending time in Nsukka?"
Kainene ignored the question. "Richard doesn't know anybody in Nsukka, so maybe you could introduce him to your revolutionary lover."
Ola
"I think Richard will like Odenigbo's house," Ola
Kainene turned toward the door. "When do you leave for Kano?"
"Tomorrow." Ola
"Go well, jee ofuma. Greet Aunty and Uncle and Arize."
"I will," Ola
Ola
She took a taxi from the train station and asked the driver to stop first at the market, so that she could greet Uncle Mbaezi.
On the narrow market paths, she maneuvered between small boys carrying large loads on their heads, women haggling, traders shouting. A record shop was playing loud High Life music, and she slowed a little to hum along to Bobby Benson's "Taxi Driver" before hurrying on to her uncle's stall. His shelves were lined with pails and other housewares.
"Omalicha!" he said, when he saw her. It was what he called her mother, too-Beautiful. "You have been on my mind. I knew you would come to see us soon."
"Uncle, good afternoon."
They hugged. Ola
It was hard to imagine Uncle Mbaezi and her mother, growing up together, brother and sister. Not only because her uncle's light-complexioned face had none of her mother's beauty but also because there was an earthiness about him. Sometimes Ola
Whenever she visited, Uncle Mbaezi would sit with her in the yard after supper and tell her the latest family news-a cousin's unmarried daughter was pregnant, and he wanted her to come and stay with them to avoid the malice of the village; a nephew had died here in Kano and he was looking into the cheapest way to take the body back home. Or he would tell her about politics: what the Igbo Union was organizing, protesting, discussing. They held meetings in his yard. She had sat in a few times, and she still remembered the meeting where irritated men and women talked about the northern schools not admitting Igbo children. Uncle Mbaezi had stood up and stamped his foot. "Ndi be anyi! My people! We will build our own school! We will raise money and build our own school!" After he spoke, Ola