Chinelo Okparanta - Happiness, Like Water

This time it was the woman who appeared thoughtful. Nneoma watched her. ‘Yes, hand-shaking seems a good enough greeting,’ the woman said.

‘Ezioma thought so too,’ Nneoma said.

By now the pastor had climbed onto the stage. He looked small in the distance, but Nneoma noticed when he raised his hand and tapped the microphone, the way he did every Sunday — to check that it was working. He tapped once, twice. The sound of the tapping was like the static on a radio.

‘This is the day the Lord has made,’ he said. ‘Let us rejoice and be glad in it!’ His voice was strong and convincing in its strength. It caused Nneoma to feel uplifted and hopeful — the way it always did.

The pastor instructed them to greet one another. They stood up to do so, shaking hands, just as Nneoma had explained. The pastor then retreated to the corner of the stage. The liturgist replaced him at the microphone, motioning everyone to rise for the call to confession. Everyone rose.

The liturgist was wearing a white dress shirt, no tie, black trousers. He said, ‘If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He Who is faithful and just will forgive us and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’

A murmur arose — quiet, harmonized prayers. Nneoma felt the tears well up in her eyes. She was penitent, and wished she could stop with her sins.

The liturgist concluded with the prayer of confession. Nneoma swiftly wiped her eyes.

The pastor made his way back to the podium. There, he stood flipping through the sheets of his sermon. As he flipped, Nneoma leaned over to the woman. ‘I found her in her bed,’ Nneoma said. ‘Just sleeping like a baby.’

‘Who?’

‘Ezioma,’ Nneoma said. ‘It’s been years now, but the memory is still so fresh.’

‘Sorry,’ the woman replied, sympathetically.

Nneoma nodded.

‘And the baby?’

‘Gone with her,’ Nneoma said, shaking her head now. She felt the tears forming in her eyes, and soon she was wiping them away with her hands. The woman just watched her; Nneoma could feel her watchful eyes. Then she could feel the woman’s hand on her, as the woman reached out to pat her gently on the arm.

Nneoma remembered Ezioma then. She remembered that it was at this specific moment of the service, all those years ago, that she invited Ezioma over for lunch. Ezioma had been married a year by then. Her husband was a contractor for Shell and was out of town on business. Not that he ever attended church, but on a normal Sunday he would have been home, and Ezioma would have had to return home to him.

Well, that Sunday, Ezioma accepted the invitation.

In Nneoma’s house, they talked about the sermon at church, about their problem students at Staff School, about the way they were getting along with other teachers. Nneoma would have brought up Obinna — Mr Nkangineme — but she knew it was better to keep him to herself — her own little secret.

They talked about the baby Ezioma was carrying and about Ezioma’s husband — Ezioma gushed about how lucky she was to have him for a husband, about how good he had been to her, and how much more so she knew he would be to the child.

It was painful for Nneoma to discuss Ezioma’s husband and baby. If she had been married herself, and with a child on the way, this would have been different. Well, she consoled herself with the thought that at least her work at Staff School allowed her the opportunity to play a motherly role. It was hardly a consolation, though, because there were of course the afterschool hours to contend with. Those terrible hours when she found herself alone again. Alone, but with all that longing. Sometimes the longing became physical, like hunger pangs. She could feel it within the walls of her stomach, and sometimes it was so intense that it caused her to lash out and strike any nearby objects. She overturned stacks of student papers, only to settle back down and then face the tedious task of reorganizing them. She threw dishes into the walls, only to have to clean up the shattered glass. Sometimes the longing caused her to pull angrily at her hair, or to beat herself — her arms, her thighs — striking and striking until she was too worn out to continue. Sometimes she simply wailed.

It was as a result of this longing that Nneoma prepared well for her lunch with Ezioma. Before the lunch, she had even taken the bus all the way to the village of Ogbigbo, so that she could visit the dibia there, so that the dibia could tell her how to go about the transaction with Ezioma in the best way possible. After her visit with the dibia, Nneoma had returned home and prepared the lunch, all to the dibia’s specifications. She made some jolloff rice with chicken, and some ogbono soup with garri. Both of these were main dishes, but Nneoma prepared them nevertheless, so that Ezioma could have her choice.

They ate sitting on the chairs that Nneoma had set out on her veranda. It would be more relaxed that way, the dibia had said. And so, of course, Nneoma complied.

The pastor was speaking now, having finally begun his sermon. Still, Nneoma continued her conversation with the woman. She spoke in a hushed voice.

‘Di-gi, o no ebe?’ she asked.

‘Home,’ the woman replied, also in a hushed voice, and keeping her eyes in the direction of the pastor. ‘He’s at home putting together furniture. Arranging the house. We’re still unpacking. But by next week, we should be settled, and then he’ll join me in church.’

Nneoma nodded. ‘It’s good to have a husband,’ she said. ‘Makes things easier.’

The woman looked at Nneoma now, she let out a quiet laugh, but she nodded, too. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Some things it does make easier.’ She turned back from Nneoma and looked once more in the direction of the pastor, who still stood at the podium delivering his sermon.

Nneoma resigned herself to her thoughts, while the woman appeared to resign herself to the sermon.

Nneoma thought of Obinna, of those years when she was sure that he’d be the one. She was not quite sure how things could have gone so wrong. She remembered the day they did.

That day, he had come into her classroom again.

He was wearing a button-down shirt, tucked into his trousers. A tie hung down from his neck. She was just sitting at her desk, gazing out the window. As had become his habit, he came in and took that same chair on the other side of her desk.

He’d brought with him a box of chalk and a blackboard eraser. ‘This should do for the next few weeks,’ he said. ‘But let me know if you need more.’

She nodded. She allowed her fingers to touch and linger on his as she accepted the package. He eyed her quizzically. She noticed this, was flattered by it. How wonderful, she thought, the way he seemed to caress her face with his eyes.

Now, when she thought of it, she knew that there were things she should have considered before going ahead with her plan. Practical things, like, was he in fact interested in her? Was he just performing a duty, just handing out supplies so that his school would run smoothly?

But it had not even occurred to her to question his affection.

She accepted the box of chalk along with the eraser and placed them on her desk. She looked at him — at his hair, his face, his eyes. His hair appeared greyer now, but his face retained its youth. His teeth were crooked, but in a way she found endearing.

She took in all of his features as he stood in front of her, continued to take in all of it as he asked, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

She shook her head.

He nodded and then turned to leave. Just as he turned, she shouted, ‘Wait!’ It came out like a gasp.

He turned back around.

She was giddy with anticipation. It occurred to her that soon she would be able to make the announcement to her mama, to her papa, to everyone who mocked, who doubted. She would be able to say, ‘I’m getting married.’ Or, ‘Here is my husband-to-be.’ And she would present Obinna to them.