Half of a Yellow Sun

"We launched it this afternoon, this very afternoon," he said, caressing his nail. "Our own homemade rocket. My people, we are on our way."

"We are a country of geniuses!" Special Julius said to nobody in particular. " Biafra is the land of genius!"

"The land of genius," Ola

The clapping soon gave way to singing.

So-lidarity forever! So-lidarity forever! Our republic shall vanquish!

Ugwu sang along and wished, again, that he could join the Civil Defense League or the militia, who went combing for Nigerians hiding in the bush. The war reports had become the highlights of his day, the fast-paced drumming, the magnificent voice saying,

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty! This is Radio Biafra Enugu! Here is the daily war report!

After the glowing news-Biafran troops were flushing out the last remnants of the enemy, Nigerian casualties were high, mopping-up operations were concluding-he would fantasize about joining the army. He would be like those recruits who went into training camp – while their relatives and well-wishers stood by the sidelines and cheered-and who emerged bright-eyed, in brave uniforms stiff with starch, half of a yellow sun gleaming on their sleeves.

He longed to play a role, to act. Win the war. So when the news that Biafra had captured the midwest and Biafran troops were marching to Lagos came over the radio, he felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Victory was theirs and he was eager to go back to the house on Odim Street, to be close to his family, to see Nnesinachi. Yet it seemed that the war had ended too soon and he had not contributed. Special Julius brought a bottle of whisky, and the guests sang and shouted drunkenly about the might of Biafra, the stupidity of the Nigerians, the foolishness of those newscasters on BBC radio.

"Look at their dirty English mouths. 'Astonishing move by Biafra ' indeed!"

"They are surprised because the arms Harold Wilson gave those Muslim cattle-rearers have not killed us off as quickly as they had hoped!"

"It is Russia you should blame, not Britain."

"Definitely Britain. Our boys brought us some Nigerian shell cases from the Nsukka sector for analysis. Every single one had uk war DEPARTMENT On it."

"We keep intercepting British accents on their radio messages too."

" Britain and Russia, then. That unholy alliance will not succeed."

The voices rose higher and higher, and Ugwu stopped listening. He got up and went out through the back and sat on the mound of cement blocks beside the house. Some little boys in the Biafran Boys Brigade were practicing on the street, with sticks shaped like guns, doing frog jumps, calling one another captain! and adjutant! in high voices.

A hawker with a tray balanced on her head ambled past. "Buy garri! Buy garri!"

She stopped when a young woman from the opposite house called out to her. They bargained for a while and then the young woman shouted, "If you want to rob people, then do so. Don't say you are selling garri for that price."

The hawker hissed and walked off.

Ugwu knew the young woman. He had first noticed her because of how perfectly rounded her buttocks were, how they rolled rhythmically, from side to side, as she walked. Her name was Eberechi. He had heard the neighbors talking about her; the story was that her parents had given her to a visiting army officer, as one would give kola nut to a guest. They had knocked on his door at night, opened it, and gently pushed her in. The next morning, the beaming officer thanked her beaming parents while Eberechi stood by.

Ugwu watched her go back indoors and wondered how she had felt about being offered to a stranger and what had happened after she was pushed into his room and who was to blame more, her parents or the officer. He didn't want to think too much about blame, though, because it would remind him of Master and Ola

Master found a rain-holder on the wedding day. The elderly man arrived early and dug a shallow pit at the back of the house, made a bonfire in it, and then sat in the thick of the bluish smoke, feeding dried leaves to the fire.

"No rain will come, nothing will happen until the wedding is over," he said, when Ugwu took him a plate of rice and meat. Ugwu smelled the harsh gin on his breath. He turned and went back indoors so the smoke would not soak into his carefully ironed shirt. Ola

Ugwu knocked on her door and opened it.

"Professor Achara is ready to take you to the church, mah," he said.

"Okay." Ola

"She is in the living room."

Ola

"We'll do the wine-carrying later, when our troops recover Umu

"Yes, mah."

"I sent a message to Kainene in Port Harcourt. She won't come, but I wanted her to know."

Ugwu paused. "They are waiting, mah."

Ola

Ugwu said nothing. If only he could reach out and tug at her lips to remove the sad smile on her face. If only it took that little.

Professor Achara knocked on the half-open door. "Ola

"I'm ready; please come in," Ola

Professor Achara handed her a plastic bouquet of multicolored flowers. Ola

"But nobody grows flowers in Umuahia. People here grow what they can eat," Professor Achara said, laughing.

"I won't hold flowers, then," Ola

For an uncertain moment, neither of them knew what to do with the plastic flowers: Ola

The wedding was simple. Ola

It was Okeoma's appearance, back at the house, that brought Ugwu out of his imagined world. Okeoma looked nothing like Ugwu remembered: the untidy hair and rumpled shirt of the poet were gone. His smart-fitting army uniform made him look straighter, leaner, and the sleeve had a skull-and-bones image next to the half of a yellow sun. Master and Ola