Half of a Yellow Sun, Americanah, Purple Hibiscus: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Three-Book Collection. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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      Later, he saw her rubbing something on Amala’s back, both of them standing in front of the bathroom. His suspicions returned. There was something wrong about the way Mama’s hands were moving in circular motions, slowly, as if in consonance with some ritual, and about the way Amala stood silent, with her back straight and her wrapper lowered to her waist and the outline of her small breasts visible from the side. Perhaps Mama was rubbing a potion on Amala. But it made no sense because if Mama had indeed gone to the dibia, the medicine would be for Olanna and not Amala. It may be, though, that the medicine worked on women and Mama would have to protect herself and Amala to make sure that only Olanna died or became barren or went mad. Perhaps Mama was performing the preliminary protections now that Olanna was in London and would bury the medicine in the yard to keep it potent until Olanna came back.

      Ugwu shivered. A shadow hung over the house. He worried about Mama’s cheeriness, her tuneless humming, her determination to serve all of Master’s meals, her frequent hushed words to Amala. He watched her carefully whenever she went outside, to see if she would bury anything, so he could unearth it as soon as she went back indoors. But she did not bury anything. When he told Jomo that he suspected Mama had gone to a dibia to find a way to kill Olanna, Jomo said, ‘The old woman is simply happy to have her son to herself, that is why she is cooking and singing every day. Do you know how happy my mother is when I go to see her without my wife?’

      ‘But I saw a black cat the last time she came,’ Ugwu said.

      ‘Professor Ozumba’s housegirl down the street is a witch. She flies to the top of the mango tree at night to meet with her fellow witches, because I always rake up all the leaves they throw down. She is the one the black cat was looking for.’

      Ugwu tried to believe Jomo, that he was reading undue meaning into Mama’s actions, until he walked into the kitchen the next evening, after weeding his herb garden, and saw the flies in a foaming mass by the sink. The window was barely open. He did not see how so many flies, more than a hundred fat, greenish flies, could have come in through that crack to buzz together in a dense, turbulent cluster. They signified something terrible. Ugwu dashed to the study to call Master.

      ‘Quite odd,’ Master said; he took off his glasses and then put them back on. ‘I’m sure Prof. Ezeka will be able to explain it, some sort of migratory behaviour. Don’t shut the window so you don’t trap them in.’

      ‘But, sah,’ Ugwu said, just as Mama came into the kitchen.

      ‘Flies do this sometimes,’ she said. ‘It is normal. They will go the same way they came.’ She was leaning by the door and her tone was ominously victorious.

      ‘Yes, yes.’ Master turned to go back to the study. ‘Tea, my good man.’

      ‘Yes, sah.’ Ugwu did not understand how Master could be so unperturbed, how he could not see that the flies were not normal at all. As he took the tea tray into the study, he said, ‘Sah, those flies are telling us something.’

      Master gestured to the table. ‘Don’t pour. Leave it there.’

      ‘Those flies in the kitchen, sah, they are a sign of bad medicine from the dibia. Somebody has done bad medicine.’ Ugwu wanted to add that he knew very well who it was, but he was not sure how Master would take that.

      ‘What?’ Master’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

      ‘The flies, sah. It means somebody has done bad medicine for this house.’

      ‘Shut the door and let me do some work, my good man.’

      ‘Yes, sah.’

      When Ugwu returned to the kitchen, the flies were gone. The window was the same, open only a crack, and the wan sunlight lit up the blade of a chopping knife on the table. He was reluctant to touch anything; the mysteries around him had tainted the pans and pots. For once, he was pleased to let Mama cook, but he did not eat the ugba and fried fish she made for dinner, did not take so much as a sip of the leftover palm wine he served to Master and his guests, did not sleep well that night. He kept jerking awake with itchy, watering eyes, wishing he could talk to somebody who would understand: Jomo, his aunty, Anulika. Finally he got up and went into the main house to dust the furniture, something mild and mindless that would keep him occupied. The purple-grey of early dawn filled the kitchen with shadows. He turned on the light switch fearfully, expecting to find something. Scorpions, perhaps; a jealous person had sent them to his uncle’s hut once, and his uncle woke up every day for weeks to find angry black scorpions crawling near his newborn twin sons. One baby had been stung and almost died.

      Ugwu cleaned the bookshelves first. He had removed the papers from the centre table and was bent over dusting it when Master’s bedroom door opened. He glanced at the corridor, surprised that Master was up so early. But it was Amala who walked out of the room. The corridor was dim and her startled eyes met Ugwu’s more startled eyes and she stopped for a moment before she hurried on to the guest room. Her wrapper was loose around her chest. She held on to it with one hand and bumped against the door of the guest room, pushing it as if she had forgotten how to open it, before she went in. Amala, common, quiet, ordinary Amala, had slept in Master’s bedroom! Ugwu stood still and tried to get his whirling head to become steady so that he could think. Mama’s medicine had done this, he was sure, but his worry was not what had happened between Master and Amala. His worry was what would happen if Olanna found out.

       20

      Olanna sat across from her mother in the living room upstairs.

      Her mother called it the ladies’ parlour, because it was where she entertained her friends, where they laughed and hailed each other by their nicknames – Art! Gold! Ugodiya! – and talked about whose son was messing around with women in London while his mates built houses on their fathers’ land, and who had bought local lace and tried to pass it off as the latest from Europe, and who was trying to snatch so-and-so’s husband, and who had imported superior furniture from Milan. Now, though, the room was muted. Her mother held a glass of tonic water in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. She was crying. She was telling Olanna about her father’s mistress.

      ‘He has bought her a house in Ikeja,’ her mother said. ‘My friend lives on the same street.’

      Olanna watched the delicate movement of her mother’s hand as she dabbed at her eyes. It looked like satin, the handkerchief; it could not possibly be absorbent enough.

      ‘Have you talked to him?’ Olanna asked.

      ‘What am I to say to him? Gwa ya gini?’ Her mother placed the glass down. She had not sipped from it since one of the maids brought it in on a silver tray. ‘There is nothing I can say to him. I just wanted to let you know what is happening so that they will not say I did not tell somebody.’

      ‘I’ll talk to him,’ Olanna said. It was what her mother wanted. She had been back from London a day, and already the glow of possibility that came after she saw the Kensington gynaecologist was dulled. Already she could not remember the hope that spread through her when he said there was nothing wrong with her and she had only to – he had winked – work harder. Already she wished she were back in Nsukka.

      ‘The worst part of it is that the woman is common riffraff,’ her mother said, twisting the handkerchief. ‘A Yoruba goat from the bush with two children from two different men. I hear she is old and ugly.’

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