Chinelo Okparanta - Under the Udala Trees

This particular day, Obaludo’s mother brought out some snails and a small tuber of yam and gave them to Obaludo and her sisters. “The snails release liquid,” she said, “so you must roast the yam first, or else the snails will quench the fire.”

She was careful to repeat the warning, especially for the sake of Obaludo, the beautiful daughter, whose beauty she knew was the envy of so many villagers and spirits alike.

Then Obaludo’s mother left.

Hours passed and finally suppertime arrived. The girls set about cooking their meal, only they had by now forgotten their mother’s warning. They started off with the snails instead of the yam. The snails had hardly finished cooking when the fire was quenched. And now they remembered the warning that their mother had given to them. But it was too late.

Their mother would not be returning for several hours yet. They were hungry, and the thought of waiting so long was like torture to them. Together they decided that they had no choice but to go in search of fire.

They fought over who would go for fire.

The two younger sisters consorted and decided that the best thing would be for the eldest sister to go. Nwaegbe , the younger two sisters begged, please won’t you go and get us fire.

But she refused.

They begged Nwaegbe again: Elder sister, please won’t you go and get us fire.

Again she refused.

Now the first and youngest sisters consorted among themselves. Finally they reached a decision: that the second sister, Nwaugo, should be the one to go. They presented their case to Nwaugo. They pleaded, Nwaugo, please go and get us fire.

But like Nwaegbe, the second sister refused.

Knowing that there was no one else to ask — that she was the only remaining option or else they would starve — Obaludo decided to go for the fire herself.

At first the roads were clear. Obaludo had begun to think that she would make it there and back just fine when, as her mother had warned, she met with a spirit.

The spirit began. “Tunya!” it said.

Obaludo replied to the spirit, “Tunya to you too!”

The spirit said, “Tunke!”

Obaludo said, “Tunke to you too!”

The exchange continued like that for some time. Obaludo could not have known it, but in the moments during which they exchanged those words, the spirit was taking away her beauty and replacing it with its own ugliness.

I sang the song softly as I bathed Chidinma:

Obaludo, Obaludo, Nwa oma,

Obaludo

Obaludo, Obaludo, Nwa oma,

Obaludo

Nne anyi nyele anyi gi na ejuna,

Obaludo

Si ayi bulu uzo ho nwa gianyi

Na ejuna ga emenyula anyi oku

Obaludo

Anyi bulu uzo ho nwa ejuna

Obaludo

Ejuna emenyusiala anyi oku

Obaludo…

Beautiful Obaludo, beautiful child,

Beautiful Obaludo, beautiful child,

Our mother gave us yam and snails,

Told us: Roast first the yam,

For the snails will douse the fire,

But we disobeyed, went first for the snails,

And the snails put out our fire,

Obaludo…

Midway through the song, I heard something like the shifting of a door in the distance, and I thought: a breeze blowing, causing the front door to rattle. I didn’t think much else of it.

I heard no footsteps, but when I turned around, I found Chibundu leaning against the bathroom doorframe, watching us with something terribly sad in his eyes. These days I can’t help thinking maybe it was the way Jesus looked upon the world as he hung from the cross. E’li, E’li, la’ma sa bach tha’ni? My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Or maybe, as according to John, simply: I thirst.

I WON’T SPEND TIME explaining why, after seeing Chibundu like that in the doorframe, I relented and gave in wholeheartedly to trying with him for a boy. Where did God come from? Before God there was whom? What is the purpose of life? Why am I here? Where am I going?

Some things can’t easily be explained.

All you need to know is that, seeing him that way at the door, I succumbed. No more pretending to be asleep. No more fighting him off at night. I made up my mind to try and get pregnant again. As if just getting pregnant was a kind of guarantee that it would be the boy child that he so desperately wanted, the boy child on account of which I now felt myself Chibundu’s hostage. But I prayed it would be so, prayed enough for both of us, enough for at least ten others. If he would only get his son, then maybe I would finally be excused from any more of those nighttime obligations. Maybe I could finally be released from this captivity of a marriage. If only the baby would come quickly, and not only come: if it would just be a boy. Please, Lord, I begged.

In that cushion of time when the harmattan imposed itself once more upon the dry season, I became with child.

If I will not spend time explaining why I gave in to Chibundu, I also will not spend any time describing the details of the pregnancy. I will instead cut, like a zip line, from point A straight to point Z and say that I had not carried the baby for three months before I lost it.

This was the way the losing went: I felt a pain one evening in the parlor as I was in the middle of lifting Chidinma. I stopped in my tracks, still holding her in my hands, afraid that any additional movement would only worsen the pain.

I tried to wait it out. But minutes passed and the pain persisted.

I set Chidinma down. It was still early in the evening, and I thought, Chibundu is not home yet. Also I thought, God, please let Chibundu come home and claim his baby before there’s nothing left to be claimed. I was only three months into the pregnancy, but I imagined a little boy in Chibundu’s likeness. He would have his father’s ogbono-shaped eyes, his button nose, his lips — the way they pursed out thickly like two millipedes when he was upset. He would be like his father in so many ways. But he would not have any of that pent-up anger of Chibundu’s, and in being born, he would wipe away all of his father’s old anger.

There we were, standing in the middle of the parlor, Chidinma’s little hand now in mine. And the pain turning into something sharper and many times more painful than all the moments before. Then, out of the blue, a cutting pain set in, and I felt myself reflexively squeeze the little hand in mine. Chidinma began to cry. What could I do? I simply listened to the sound of her crying, listened to it as from a deep, hollow tunnel, more like listening to an echo than to the sound itself.

I thought: Let him come and claim his baby before there is nothing of a baby to be claimed.

I moved one foot in front of the other, but then I felt myself drain out, the opposite of a suction, as if a plug in me had suddenly been unplugged. I looked down, and beneath me I saw a pool of blood spreading out in clumps on the floor. Then there was a heavy odor of raw flesh all over, saturating the room, threatening even the air in my lungs. To this day, I can see it in my mind: little Chidinma standing by my side, crying and wallowing in the clumpy puddle of her mother’s blood.

Everything turned to gray. And then all of it faded to black.

I awoke to Chibundu’s face hovering above me, stroking my forehead, telling me that everything would be fine. He was carrying Chidinma in his arms.

My hospital bed was near a window. Outside, the sun was setting, purple clouds blooming in a bed of gray, something like a bruise on pale skin.

How long had I been there? Hours? Days?