Half of a Yellow Sun. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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      ‘Do your people eat while they sleep?’ Master asked. He was wearing something that looked like a woman’s coat and was absently twirling the rope tied round his waist.

      ‘Sah?’

      ‘Did you want to eat the chicken while in bed?’

      ‘No, sah.’

      ‘Food will stay in the dining room and the kitchen.’

      ‘Yes, sah.’

      ‘The kitchen and bathroom will have to be cleaned today.’

      ‘Yes, sah.’

      Master turned and left. Ugwu stood trembling in the middle of the room, still holding the chicken pieces with his hand outstretched. He wished he did not have to walk past the dining room to get to the kitchen. Finally, he put the chicken back in his pockets, took a deep breath, and left the room. Master was at the dining table, the teacup in front of him placed on a pile of books.

      ‘You know who really killed Lumumba?’ Master said, looking up from a magazine. ‘It was the Americans and the Belgians. It had nothing to do with Katanga.’

      ‘Yes, sah,’ Ugwu said. He wanted Master to keep talking, so he could listen to the sonorous voice, the musical blend of English words in his Igbo sentences.

      ‘You are my houseboy,’ Master said. ‘If I order you to go outside and beat a woman walking on the street with a stick, and you then give her a bloody wound on her leg, who is responsible for the wound, you or me?’

      Ugwu stared at Master, shaking his head, wondering if Master was referring to the chicken pieces in some roundabout way.

      ‘Lumumba was prime minister of Congo. Do you know where Congo is?’ Master asked.

      ‘No, sah.’

      Master got up quickly and went into the study. Ugwu’s confused fear made his eyelids quiver. Would Master send him home because he did not speak English well, kept chicken in his pocket overnight, did not know the strange places Master named? Master came back with a wide piece of paper that he unfolded and laid out on the dining table, pushing aside books and magazines. He pointed with his pen. ‘This is our world, although the people who drew this map decided to put their own land on top of ours. There is no top or bottom, you see.’ Master picked up the paper and folded it, so that one edge touched the other, leaving a hollow between. ‘Our world is round, it never ends. Nee anya, this is all water, the seas and oceans, and here’s Europe and here’s our own continent, Africa, and the Congo is in the middle. Farther up here is Nigeria, and Nsukka is here, in the southeast; this is where we are.’ He tapped with his pen.

      ‘Yes, sah.’

      ‘Did you go to school?’

      ‘Standard two, sah. But I learn everything fast.’

      ‘Standard two? How long ago?’

      ‘Many years now, sah. But I learn everything very fast!’

      ‘Why did you stop school?’

      ‘My father’s crops failed, sah.’

      Master nodded slowly. ‘Why didn’t your father find somebody to lend him your school fees?’

      ‘Sah?’

      ‘Your father should have borrowed!’ Master snapped, and then, in English, ‘Education is a priority! How can we resist exploitation if we don’t have the tools to understand exploitation?’

      ‘Yes, sah!’ Ugwu nodded vigorously. He was determined to appear as alert as he could, because of the wild shine that had appeared in Master’s eyes.

      ‘I will enrol you in the staff primary school,’ Master said, still tapping on the piece of paper with his pen.

      Ugwu’s aunty had told him that if he served well for a few years, Master would send him to commercial school where he would learn typing and shorthand. She had mentioned the staff primary school, but only to tell him that it was for the children of the lecturers, who wore blue uniforms and white socks so intricately trimmed with wisps of lace that you wondered why anybody had wasted so much time on mere socks.

      ‘Yes, sah,’ he said. ‘Thank, sah.’

      ‘I suppose you will be the oldest in class, starting in standard three at your age,’ Master said. ‘And the only way you can get their respect is to be the best. Do you understand?’

      ‘Yes, sah!’

      ‘Sit down, my good man.’

      Ugwu chose the chair farthest from Master, awkwardly placing his feet close together. He preferred to stand.

      ‘There are two answers to the things they will teach you about our land: the real answer and the answer you give in school to pass. You must read books and learn both answers. I will give you books, excellent books.’ Master stopped to sip his tea. ‘They will teach you that a white man called Mungo Park discovered River Niger. That is rubbish. Our people fished in the Niger long before Mungo Park’s grandfather was born. But in your exam, write that it was Mungo Park.’

      ‘Yes, sah.’ Ugwu wished that this person called Mungo Park had not offended Master so much.

      ‘Can’t you say anything else?’

      ‘Sah?’

      ‘Sing me a song.’

      ‘Sah?’

      ‘Sing me a song. What songs do you know? Sing!’ Master pulled his glasses off. His eyebrows were furrowed, serious. Ugwu began to sing an old song he had learned on his father’s farm. His heart hit his chest painfully. ‘Nzogbo nzogbu enyimba, enyi …’

      He sang in a low voice at first, but Master tapped his pen on the table and said ‘Louder!’ so he raised his voice, and Master kept saying ‘Louder!’ until he was screaming. After singing over and over a few times, Master asked him to stop. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Can you make tea?’

      ‘No, sah. But I learn fast,’ Ugwu said. The singing had loosened something inside him, he was breathing easily and his heart no longer pounded. And he was convinced that Master was mad.

      ‘I eat mostly at the staff club. I suppose I shall have to bring more food home now that you are here.’

      ‘Sah, I can cook.’

      ‘You cook?’

      Ugwu nodded. He had spent many evenings watching his mother cook. He had started the fire for her, or fanned the embers when it started to die out. He had peeled and pounded yams and cassava, blown out the husks in rice, picked out the weevils from beans, peeled onions, and ground peppers. Often, when his mother was sick with the coughing, he wished that he, and not Anulika, would cook. He had never told anyone this, not even Anulika; she had already told him he spent too much time around women cooking, and he might never grow a beard if he kept doing that.

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