Страница 24 из 113
Master had changed; he looked at Ola
"Yes, of course," Master said, so promptly that it a
He finished the lunch dishes quickly. If he was as quick in preparing the greens for the di
Ugwu laughed as he brought the greens out of the refrigerator. He could not imagine Mr. Richard during the ori-okpa festival, where the mmuo (Mr. Richard said they were masquerades, weren't they, and Ugwu agreed, as long as masquerades meant spirits) paraded the village, flogged young men, and chased after young women. The mmuo themselves might even laugh at the sight of a pale stranger scribbling in a notebook. But he was pleased that he had mentioned the festival to Mr. Richard, because it meant an opportunity to see Nnesinachi before she left for the North. To think how impressed she would be when he arrived in a white man's car, driven by the white man himself! She would certainly notice him this time, he was sure, and he could not wait to impress Anulika and his cousins and relatives with his English, his new shirt, his knowledge of sandwiches and ru
Ugwu had just washed the shredded greens when he heard the doorbell. It was too early for Master's friends. He went to the door, wiping his hands on his apron. For a moment, he wondered if his aunty was really standing there or if he was seeing an image of her only because he had been thinking about home.
"Aunty?"
"Ugwuanyi," she said, "you have to come home. Oga gi kwanu? Where is your master?"
"Come home?"
"Your mother is very sick."
Ugwu examined the scarf tied round his aunty's head. He could see where it was threadbare, the fabric stretched thin. He remembered that when his cousin's father died, the family had sent word to her in Lagos, telling her to come home because her father was very sick. If you were far from home, they told you the dead person was very sick.
"Your mother is sick," his aunty repeated. "She is asking for you. I will tell Master that you will be back tomorrow, so he will not think we are asking for too much. Many houseboys do not even get to go home in years, you know that."
Ugwu did not move, rolling the edge of the apron around his finger. He wanted to ask his aunt to tell him the truth, to say so if his mother was dead. But his mouth would not form the words. Remembering his mother's last illness, when she had coughed and coughed until his father left before dawn to get the dibia while the junior wife, Chioke, rubbed her back, frightened him.
"Master is not in," he said finally. "But he will be back soon."
"I will wait and plead with him to let you come home."
He led the way to the kitchen, where his aunty sat down and watched him slice a yam and then cut the slices into cubes. He worked fast, feverishly. The sunlight that came in through the window seemed too bright for late afternoon, too full of an ominous radiance.
"Is my father well?" Ugwu asked.
"He is well." His aunty's face was opaque, her tone flat: the demeanor of a person who carried more bad news than she had delivered. She must be hiding something. Perhaps his mother really was dead; perhaps both his parents had fallen down dead that morning. Ugwu continued to slice, in a turgid silence, until Master came home, te
"Welcome, sah."
"Yes, my good man." Master placed his racket down on the kitchen table. "Some water, please. I lost all my games today."
Ugwu had the water ready, ice cold in a glass placed on a saucer.
"Good evening, sah," his aunty greeted.
"Good evening," Master said, looking slightly perplexed, as if he was not certain who she was. "Oh, yes. How are you?"
Before she could say more, Ugwu said, "My mother is sick, sah. Please, sah, if I go to see her I will return tomorrow."
"What?"
Ugwu repeated himself. Master stared at him and then at the pot on the stove. "Have you finished cooking?"
"No, sah. I will finish fast-fast, before I go. I will set the table and arrange everything."
Master turned to Ugwu's aunty. "Gini me? What is wrong with his mother?"
"Sah?"
"Are you deaf?" Master jabbed at his ear as if Ugwu's aunty did not know what it meant to be deaf. "What is wrong with his mother?"
"Sah, her chest is on fire."
"Chest on fire?" Master snorted. He drank all his water and then turned to Ugwu and spoke English. "Put on a shirt and get in the car. Your village isn't far away, really. We should be back in good time."
"Sah?"
"Put on a shirt and get in the car!" Master scribbled a note on the back of a flyer and left it on the table. "We'll bring your mother here and have Patel take a look at her."
"Yes, sah." Ugwu felt breakable as he walked to the car, beside his aunty and Master. He felt as though his bones were broomsticks, the kind that snapped easily during the harmattan. The ride to his village was mostly silent. As they drove past some farms with rows and rows of corn and cassava like a neatly plaited hairstyle, Master said, "See? This is what our government should focus on. If we learn irrigation technology, we can feed this country easily. We can overcome this colonial dependence on imports."