Half of a Yellow Sun

"It's quite tasteless, which is better than bad-tasting, of course," she said, and smiled at Master before turning to Ugwu. "I'll show you how to cook rice properly, Ugwu, without using so much oil."

"Yes, mah," Ugwu said. He had invented what he imagined was fried rice, frying the rice in groundnut oil, and had half hoped it would send them both to the toilet in a hurry Now, though, he wanted to cook a perfect meal, a savory jollof rice or his special stew with arigbe, to show her how well he could cook. He delayed washing up so that the ru

She would move to Nsukka. She would live in this house. Ugwu walked away from the door and stared at the pot on the stove. His life would change. He would learn to cook fried rice and he would have to use less oil and he would take orders from her. He felt sad, and yet his sadness was incomplete; he felt expectant too, an excitement he did not entirely understand.

That evening, he was washing Master's linen in the backyard, near the lemon tree, when he looked up from the basin of soapy water and saw her standing by the back door, watching him. At first, he was sure it was his imagination, because the people he thought the most about often appeared to him in visions. He had imaginary conversations with Anulika all the time, and, right after he touched himself at night, Nnesinachi would appear briefly with a mysterious smile on her face. But Ola

"Mah? You want anything?" he asked. He knew that if he reached out and touched her face, it would feel like butter, the kind Master unwrapped from a paper packet and spread on his bread.

"Let me help you with that." She pointed at the bedsheet he was rinsing, and slowly he took the dripping sheet out. She held one end and moved back. "Turn yours that way," she said.

He twisted his end of the sheet to his right while she twisted to her right, and they watched as the water was squeezed out. The sheet was slippery.

"Thank, mah," he said.

She smiled. Her smile made him feel taller. "Oh, look, those pawpaws are almost ripe. Lotekwa, don't forget to pluck them."

There was something polished about her voice, about her; she was like the stone that lay right below a gushing spring, rubbed smooth by years and years of sparkling water, and looking at her was similar to finding that stone, knowing that there were so few like it. He watched her walk back indoors.

He did not want to share the job of caring for Master with anyone, did not want to disrupt the balance of his life with Master, and yet it was suddenly unbearable to think of not seeing her again. Later, after di

2

Ola

She was disappointed to see the sleek white forms of airplanes gliding up as they approached the airport. He parked beneath the colo

"I can't wait, nkem," he said, his lips pressed to hers. He tasted of marmalade. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't wait to move to Nsukka either, but he knew anyway, and his tongue was in her mouth, and she felt a new warmth between her legs.

A car horn blew. A porter called out, "Ha, this place is for loading, oh! Loading only!"

Finally, Odenigbo let her go and jumped out of the car to get her bag from the boot. He carried it to the ticket counter. "Safe journey, ije oma," he said.

"Drive carefully," she said.

She watched him walk away, a thickly built man in khaki trousers and a short-sleeved shirt that looked crisp from ironing. He threw his legs out with an aggressive confidence: the gait of a person who would not ask for directions but remained sure that he would somehow get there. After he drove off, she lowered her head and sniffed herself. She had dabbed on his Old Spice that morning, impulsively, and didn't tell him because he would laugh. He would not understand the superstition of taking a whiff of him with her. It was as if the scent could, at least for a while, stifle her questions and make her a little more like him, a little more certain, a little less questioning.

She turned to the ticket seller and wrote her name on a slip of paper. "Good afternoon. One way to Lagos, please."

"Ozobia?" The ticket seller's pockmarked face brightened in a wide smile. "Chief Ozobia's daughter?"

"Yes."

"Oh! Well done, madam. I will ask the porter to take you to the VIP lounge." The ticket seller turned around. "Ike

Ola

The general lounge was crowded. Ola

"You must be waiting for somebody," Ola

"Yes, nwa