Chinelo Okparanta - Under the Udala Trees

I laughed with discomfort, more a snicker than a regular laugh. “I suppose some women would also do well to have a husband.”

“That’s right,” he said. “It goes both ways. Every man needs a wife, and every woman needs a husband.”

I repeated, lingering on the “some,” drawing it out for emphasis. “Yes, some women would do well to have a husband.”

The clarification seemed to go over his head. He continued to wipe his bottle. I pretended to inspect the shelf for dust. There was the sound of wood scraping on the cement floor, and then a shuffling sound from the corner of the store. I looked up to find Mama approaching, nodding robustly, a wide smile on her face. I wondered why it had taken her so long to notice. I wondered if she had been in on the whole thing from the start.

“It’s very good to see you children reconnect,” she said, not quite winking, but almost.

“We thank God,” Chibundu replied.

The blood vessels in my temples pulsed. My face heated up, and I felt a burning sensation in my cheeks. It seemed clear to me that I was the victim of a terrible conspiracy. A pawn in a scheme. “In fact, I came for a special request,” Chibundu was saying now, looking at Mama. He turned back to look at me. “I’ve been thinking. Would you like to join me for dinner one night soon? I have been wanting to ask you for some time. I hope you don’t already have another handsome young fellow in the picture. My disappointment would be too great.”

Mama leapt in. “No, no, she does not have a boyfriend. You came just in time. Even one day’s delay might have changed your fate,” she said, smiling, patting him on the back. “Who knows, another man might have walked in and stolen her from you. But you are lucky, Chibundu my boy. Very lucky. Good timing.”

He smiled.

I felt the anger in me mounting. I could say something to put them both in their place, to retract myself from any longer being a pawn. I could seize back control of myself just by opening my mouth and speaking my mind.

But for some reason, it was the same kind of issue that I had by now started to notice as a pattern in me: my mouth would not open up. I could not get myself to speak.

“What do you say? Tomorrow? Six p.m.?”

Mama did not miss a beat. “Yes! Certainly! Da’lu. Thank you o. Ijeoma would like that very much. It’s been so good to have you here in Aba, Chibundu. So very good.”

“Wonderful,” he said. He’d been looking at me as Mama spoke. He lifted his hand and squeezed me gently by the arm. “I will see you both tomorrow then. I must get back to work now.”

He walked to the counter. I did not return to stocking the shelf. I looked back and forth between him and Mama. Mama was standing by my side, her arms akimbo, glowing like a pregnant woman.

I watched as Chibundu placed the money for his beer near the register, the glossy brownness of the Guinness bottle sticking out sharply from the light-colored skin of his hand. Then he made his way out of the door.

For the rest of the day, I longed for the closing of the store like a prisoner awaiting release. I felt terribly lethargic, as if all my energy had gone into simply surviving the incident with Chibundu and Mama.

In Ndidi’s flat, my energy returned. “Can you imagine, just walking in there and basically proposing to me, and right in front of Mama!” My arms flailed all over the place as I spoke. So much anger.

We were standing in her kitchen. A frying pan sat on one of the stove’s burners, slices of plantain sizzling in the oil in the pan. The air was humid from the heat of cooking, but the sweet scent of the plantains infused the heat with a gentle perfume.

She had flipped over the plantains with a fork so that the golden sides were facing up. She lifted the fork now and simply held it. She looked my way. The windows over the sink were open. A light breeze entered and caused a chill on my skin. She held my eyes with an ambiguous expression in her own.

She said, “With everything that has happened here lately — and now the arrival of this Chibundu — I can’t help thinking maybe you should just try it.”

She must have seen it in my eyes, how her words astounded me.

She still had that ambiguous look on her face, but she was determined to come off as resolute. “I’m serious,” she said, no longer looking at me. “Go out with him. See how you feel. This kind of life is not for everyone. People like us are getting killed. And anyway, you might decide you like that other life better. The kind of life that he can give you — you know, man and wife.”

“How can you even say that?” I asked.

“All I’m saying is that you never know.” She looked at the plantains in the pan. She began gathering them one by one onto a plate. “You might like it. I really think that you should at least try it out and see. Have you ever?”

“Have I ever what?”

“You know, have you ever tried being with a boy?”

I shook my head. Of course I had never tried being with a boy. How could she imply that I even had a choice in the matter? How could she imply that it was that simple — that I should just go on and order myself to try things out with a boy? Had she? Was that how it worked for her? Anyway, if I had had any attraction at all to boys, would it not have expressed itself by now? What sense was there in my “trying it out”? My heart and soul and mind were centered around her. She was the one I wanted, and she was enough for me. She was the one I loved, the one who had a hold on my heart. It infuriated me that she was trying to push me away.

“Do it for me as a favor. If you don’t like it, then at least I’ll also know and will never have to worry about a boy stealing you away.”

“You’ll never have to worry about that anyway,” I said.

“You never know,” she said softly. “You might surprise yourself.”

I remained quiet for some time, fuming. Finally I said, “Okay,” more out of spite than out of acceptance. “You want me to go out with a boy? Okay. I will.”

Of course, it would be just one date. It would really be a waste of time, but I’d do it anyway, if for no other reason than to be able to say that I had tried it out.

She nodded, gazing at me, her lips twitching slightly as if with nerves. There was something shaky, slightly nervous-sounding about her voice when she turned away and said, “Good. Just one date. It will be all the confirmation I need.”

I SMELLED OF MAMA’S lavender perfume. She had insisted that I spray it on. She had found me a pair of her old earrings — the ones with yellow pebble-sized stones that dangled down like miniature globes.

I sat on the edge of the bed in my full slip, watching as she ransacked my drawers. “What are you still doing with this thing?” she asked, pulling out one of my old gowns. “Do you realize how old it is? Biko , you need to throw this nonsense out already! These are no longer the war days. We have moved on. Get rid of it.”

She continued to riffle through the garments in the drawers. At last she settled on a long, beige dress with flower and leaf patterns printed along its hem. She held it out in front of her. The dress hung limply from her hands, all wrinkled. She shook it vigorously as if to shake out the wrinkles. She shook and shook, and then, giving up on that, she began tugging and stretching the wrinkles out.

“I should really iron this for you, but I don’t think we have time.” Still, as soon as she had uttered the words, she appeared to change her mind. I watched her walk out of the room. In the distance I heard the sounds of her fussing with the iron. About twenty minutes passed and she returned with the dress crisply ironed for me.