Chinelo Okparanta - Under the Udala Trees

My thoughts of Amina faded into thoughts of Mama, and of her Bible studies, and of the grammar school teacher’s scolding, and of all those threats of stoning. Though I had not been convinced by any of Mama’s interpretations of the Bible, I could not help the anxiety that was building in me, frantic and questioning thoughts: Just what are you doing in a place like this? What business does a respectable young woman have in an underground place like this?

The music grew loud then, overpowering my thoughts. Ndidi held me tighter, pressed her body into mine, and there was a reassurance in it. Never before had I danced this way with a woman, never before so freely. I banished all thoughts of Amina, and of Mama’s Bible studies, and of the grammar school teacher’s scolding, and of stonings. I told myself to enjoy, just enjoy. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!

We danced together for a long time, Ndidi and I, and I felt a sense of liberation that I had not until then known.

She walked me almost all the way to the bungalow, stopping a short distance from the gate. There, she said, “Now, I hope I can trust you to keep quiet about tonight. No one at all must know.”

“Of course you can trust me,” I replied.

She took my hand briefly. “Thanks for the good company,” she said.

“Thanks for taking me,” I replied.

“I’ll be going home to Obigbo to see my parents and little brother this weekend. But maybe we can go out again next week when I get back.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

We stood there awkwardly staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. In a different world, we might have leaned in and kissed each other on the lips. We might have held each other tightly the way that lovers do. But there was the matter of Mama being so close. She might suddenly appear and all hell would break loose. Anyone at all might suddenly appear, to the same effect.

“See you next week,” Ndidi simply said.

“See you,” I replied.

Watching her walk away that night, I felt more happiness than I had felt in a long time. If I could have sped up the hands of time, I would have done so, so that next week would be tomorrow.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Mama hollered.

“I was just with Ndidi,” I replied.

“Just with Ndidi? So why did it take you this long to come back? Do you know how late it is?”

It was not yet eleven, which was not very late in the grand scheme of things. But I did not bother to tell Mama that. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, Mama. I just lost track of time.”

“You lost track of time?” she scolded. “You lost track of time? One day, if you’re not careful, time will lose track of you! And I hope you know what that means!”

Under her breath, she said, “Well, at least you were just with Ndidi. At least that one has a good head on her shoulders. I suppose it could have been worse.”

Alone in my bedroom, I was full of thoughts of Ndidi. As I changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed, there she was, taking up all the spaces, right down to the cracks and crevices of my mind. I could not help myself, even with Mama in the next room over. I found myself having a physical reaction to her in my thoughts. I became so engorged, so swollen with desire, that the only relief I could think of was to pleasure myself, a thing that I had hardly ever done before — only once or twice in our secondary school in Oraifite. Never mind what Mama had said about Onan and the wasting of his seed, that the moral of the story was that any sort of self-pleasure was a sin in the eyes of God.

Never mind all of that. I did it anyway. I went about it very quietly, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Before long my throat was catching with fulfillment and relief, and there was not an ounce of guilt accompanying it.

I fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction, but I had slept only a couple of hours when I woke up with a start.

Memories of my Bible studies with Mama rushed back to me yet again, no matter how much I tried to put them away from my mind. Condemning words falling upon my consciousness like a rainstorm, drenching me and threatening to drown me out. I was the happiest I had been in a long time, but suddenly here was this panicked dream, as if to mockingly ask me how I could even presume to think happiness was a thing within my reach.

In the dream, I had lain curled up in a fetal position on the floor. Mama was hovering above me, waving her index finger like an angry schoolteacher, her eyes glowing with reproach and with tears. She was screaming, “A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave.”

I woke up with the words reverberating in my mind.

A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave…

A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave…

A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave…

I forced my eyes to close, forced myself to go back to sleep, but each time, the words returned in my dream and snatched me back awake:

A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave…

A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave…

A heedless fly follows the devil to the grave…

IF YOU SET OFF on a witch-hunt, you will find a witch.

When you find her, she will be dressed like any other person. But to you, her skin will glow in stripes of white and black. You will see her broom, and you will hear her witch-cry, and you will feel the effects of her spells on you.

No matter how unlike a witch she is, there she will be, a witch, before your eyes.

The period of time after the church visit with Ndidi was the beginning of my witch-hunt against myself. At the moment when I had found a community that should have been a source of support and security, an unexpected sort of self-loathing flared up. In that moment, I began to believe myself a witch under the influence of the devil, and if Mama’s exorcism had not worked, then it seemed that I owed it to myself to find something that would. Self-purification was the goal.

All night I had listened to Mama’s voice — not her voice in real time, but her voice in the dream — warning me about following the devil to the grave. By the time day rolled around, my mind was infested with images of graves. I had become a little like a coffin: I felt a hollowness in me and a rattling at my seams.

Mama’s voice was the source of all my turmoil, so I could hardly stand to be around her. At about noon, I asked permission to leave the shop. I could not tell her why. I simply requested an hour away. I carried the handbag I had packed for myself with my Bible and prayer scarf in it and headed to Mama’s and my regular church.

When I got there it was empty. I sat for some time at the back of the church, my thoughts racing in no particular direction. I must have sat for half an hour before going up to the front. Just before reaching the pulpit, I knelt down, pulled out my Bible and prayer scarf from my bag. I tied the scarf around my head.

I opened the Bible, placed my palms firmly on its pages. I closed my eyes and prayed:

Dear God, what is the meaning of all of this?

Instantly I felt guilt stirring as a result of my daring to ask God this kind of question.

I tried a different tactic. I pleaded:

Dear God, I am a sinner, and I come before you to beg you to please show me the path to righteousness.

But what if I was not, in fact, sinning? What if I was subjecting myself to all this guilt for no reason at all?

Lord, I am confused. Please give me a sign. If there is any evil in my heart, please give me a sign so that I might recognize it and, in doing so, avoid it.

My eyes had been closed all along. I had hardly opened them when I caught a flicker of light in the direction of the pulpit, like a piece of jewelry reflecting the sunlight. Then it appeared that the flicker was growing bigger, approaching.