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"Good afternoon," Ugwu said.
"Who are you?" the soldier asked. "Are you an idle civilian?"
"I am a teacher."
"A teacher? Onye nkuzi?" He swung his gun back and forth.
"Yes," Ugwu responded in English. "We organize classes in this neighborhood and teach the young ones the ideals of the Biafran cause." He hoped his English sounded like Ola
"Which classes?" the soldier asked, in a near mumble. He looked both impressed and uncertain.
"We focus on civics and mathematics and English. The Director of Mobilization has sponsored our efforts."
The soldier stared.
Eberechi hurried out; her face wore a thin coat of white powder, her eyebrows were darkened, her lips a red gash.
"Let's go," she said to the soldier. Then she bent and whispered to Ugwu, "I am coming. If they look for me, please say I went to get something from Ngozi's house."
"Okay, Mr. Teacher! See you!" The soldier said and Ugwu thought he saw a glimmer of triumph in his eyes, the illiterate fool. Ugwu could not bear to watch them go; he studied his nails instead. The mix of hurt and confusion and embarrassment weakened him. He could not believe she had just asked him to lie for her while she ran off to see a man she had never mentioned to him. His legs were sluggish as he walked across the road. Everything he did for the rest of the day was colored with a bitter dye, and he thought, more than once, about walking down to the bar to see what was going on.
It was dark when she knocked on the back door.
"Do you know they have already renamed the Rising Sun Bar?" she asked, laughing. "It is now called Tanzania Bar!"
He looked at her and said nothing.
"People were playing Tanzanian music and dancing, and one businessman came and ordered chicken and beer for everybody," she said.
His jealousy was visceral; it clutched at his throat and tried to strangle him.
"Where is Aunty Ola
"She is reading with Baby," Ugwu managed to say. He wanted to shake her until she told him the full truth of the afternoon, what she had done with the man, why the lipstick was gone from her lips.
Eberechi sighed. "Is there some water? I am thirsty. I drank beer today."
Ugwu could not believe how casual and comfortable she was. He poured some water into a cup and she drank it slowly.
"I met the major some weeks ago; he gave me a lift when I went to Orlu, but I did not think he would even remember me. He is such a nice man." Eberechi paused. "I told him you are my brother. He said he will make sure nobody comes here to conscript you." She looked proud of what she had accomplished, and Ugwu felt as if she were deliberately pulling out his teeth, one after the other.
He turned away. He needed no favors from her lover. "I have to clean up," he said stiffly.
She drank another cup of water before she said, "Ngwanu; let the day break," and left.
Ugwu stopped going over to Eberechi's house. He ignored her greetings, was angered by her wide-eyed look and her asking, "What is it, Ugwu? What did I do to offend you?" Eventually, she stopped asking or speaking to him. He didn't care. Yet when he heard a car drive past, he rushed to see if it was the biafran army Peugeot 403. He saw her leave in the mornings and thought perhaps she and the major had arranged a regular meeting place until she came by one evening to give some stockfish to Ola
"Such a nice girl, ezigbo nwa," Ola
Ugwu said nothing. Ola
He steeled himself and went inside when he heard Ola
"Welcome, mah," Ugwu said.
Ola
"Mah? Did something happen?"
"Your master's mother is dead."
Ugwu moved closer because her words had solidified, become suspended objects hovering just above his reach. It took him a moment to understand.
"His cousin sent a message," Ola
"Hei!" Ugwu placed his hand on his head and struggled to remember what Mama had looked like the last time he saw her, standing by the kola nut tree, refusing to leave home. But he could not visualize her. Instead he recalled a blurred image of her in the kitchen in Nsukka, opening a pod of peppercorns. His eyes filled with tears. He wondered what other calamities he was yet to learn of. Perhaps the Hausa vandals had stayed back in his hometown; perhaps they had killed his own mother too.
When Master came home and went into his bedroom, Ugwu was unsure whether to go to the bedroom or wait for him to come out. He decided to wait. He lit the kerosene stove and mixed Baby's pap. He wished that he had been less resentful of Mama's strong-smelling soups.
Ola
"Why are you using the kerosene stove?" she shouted. "I na-ezuzu ezuzu? Are you stupid? Haven't I told you to save our kerosene?"
Ugwu was startled. "But mah, you said I should cook Baby's food on the stove."
"I did not say that! Go outside and light a fire!"
"Sorry, mah." But she had indeed said that; only Baby ate three times a day now-the rest of them ate twice-and Ola
"Do you know how much kerosene costs? Just because you don't pay for the things you use you think you can do with them as you like? Is firewood itself not a luxury where you come from?"
"Sorry, mah."
Ola
"Your master won't talk to me," she said.
The long pause that followed filled Ugwu with a deeply uncomfortable sense of intimacy; she had never before spoken to him about Master like this.
"Sorry, mah," he said, and sat next to her; he wanted to place a hand on her back to comfort her but he couldn't and so he left his hand suspended, inches from touching her, until she sighed and got up and went inside.
Master came out to go to the outhouse.
"My madam told me what happened, sah," Ugwu said. "Ndo. Sorry."