Under the Udala Trees (25 page)

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.

“It's really the perfect dress,” she said. “It will show just enough of your neckline and your ankles. That should be enough to keep his interest. That's the way to do it. Show a little of the collarbone and a little of the ankles.”

It was a three-quarter-sleeved dress. Mama said that the modesty of the sleeves was a good thing. Short enough that he could see my wrists and a portion of my forearm, which would also help in winning him over.

She sat on the edge of the bed and watched as I put on the dress. When I had slid it down my body, she stood and helped me to button it up, then took a few steps back and examined me. She walked back toward me and began fussing with the bodice and the hem.

“Yes,” she said. “Perfect now. You look like the daughter I always envisioned you could be. Just perfect.”

I remained silent.

She said, “You might marry him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mama, that's a big leap to make. Even if marriage were an option, don't you think you're hurrying things a bit?”

Her face now appeared sad, melancholic. Nostalgic. She said, “Not a day goes by that I don't wish your papa were here with me. Every minute counts. You want to take advantage of every minute while you can. Believe me, there are worse things than hurrying things.”

It had been some years since Mama brought up the topic of Papa. The last time, it was with antagonism, resentment. Now it seemed she had let go of her grudge. Here she was, talking about him dotingly, with affection. I remained quiet, hoping that she would continue in that vein, hoping that maybe the time had come when we would be able to reminisce together, revisiting, fondly, old memories of Papa. But she did not say any more. Instead, she went back to the topic of Chibundu.

“He's a good man,” she said.

I frowned. How could she really know? I said something that Papa used to say: “Isn't it the case that the most beautiful fruit might contain a worm?”

“Well,” she said, “that might very well be. But isn't it also true that the cashew doesn't fall too far from the tree? His parents are good people. And it seems to me that if he's changed at all, it's been for the best. I think we both agree that he has grown into a fine young man. But let's not worry about that for now. For now, just go out and enjoy yourself. Smile often and make sure you show him how pleased you are to be out with him.”

“And what if I'm not pleased?” I asked.

“Smile anyway. He's a good man, and you
will
be pleased. With a man, life is difficult. Without a man, life is even more difficult. Take it from me.”

That evening, as Chibundu and I headed down the path that led to the front gate, I turned around to find Mama still standing at the front door. She was wearing a wide smile. Her arms were clasped in front of her, just above her chest, as if in prayer.

T
HESE DAYS, THE
events leading up to the wedding still haunt me. They are blurry at times, but sometimes they are as clear as the sky on a sunny afternoon.

We were at the bus stop in Aba, as Chibundu was on his way back to Ojoto to visit with his family. He had asked me to walk along with him, and so I had. This was about a month after our date.

The bus had not yet arrived. I took a seat on a bench made out of several cement blocks and a single wooden plank. Chibundu refused to take a seat. He stood fiddling with his hands, wringing and unwringing them, wringing and unwringing like a child afraid of getting scolded.

“Chibundu, what's the matter?” I asked. “
Odikwa mma?
”

He cleared his throat and said, “I b-brought you here b-because . . . because I wanted to ask you something.” He was stammering, though he was not a stammerer.

All his fidgeting was making me nervous. I had to look away.

Not far down the road, a hen was pecking at a crumb. A man in khaki-colored shorts was plucking a mango from a tree. Another man, a mechanic, was lying flat on a mat on the gravel-paved lot of the auto repair shop across the street, working on a Land Rover. Near him: metal pipes reflecting the sun, the trickling of black oil.

A minute went by. The mechanic slid out from under the car, walked around to the front. He opened the hood, appeared to be tinkering with something inside. The hen began to squawk.

“I—don't—know,” I heard Chibundu say.

I turned back to look at him. “You don't know? What don't you know?”

“But I think—I think—I know I can.” He put emphasis on the “know.” It was something like the beginning of a pledge, a vow. But it was disheartening the way his voice was breaking, faltering, like an imperfect promise.

“You know you can what?
Gini ka inwere ike ime?
”

He cleared his throat, turned so that he was no longer looking at me. He had stopped fiddling with his hands. Now he was looking at the mango picker, who was walking away from the tree. Chibundu stared in that direction for some time. When he turned back to me, he was finally able to get it out. “I know I can make you happy,” he said, instantly resolute.

We were looking at each other, eye to eye. “Make me happy?” I asked quietly, touched but also a little startled, because even then I must have known that the proposal would follow.

“Marry me,” he said, crouching by my side. He took my hand in his, and he asked the question. “Will you? Will you be my wife?”

Sweat had formed on his forehead. He reached into his pocket, took out his handkerchief, and in that moment I noticed the contours of a small box in his pocket, below where the handkerchief had been. He dabbed away his sweat, then pulled out the box, opened it to reveal the ring. The golden band sparkled in the sun.

Soon he placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, and I allowed him to do so. It felt preordained, as if there were no way out even if I tried. How would I face Mama when it got back to her that Chibundu had proposed and I had declined? She would be devastated, would most likely be heartbroken at the fact that I had passed up the life she wanted for me—and perhaps the only opportunity that I was likely to have with a man.

And anyway, here was Chibundu, sweating before me, stammering, promising to make me happy. What if he actually could? What if I only had to give it a real try to see? Because when I thought of it, I
did
want to be normal. I
did
want to lead a normal life. I did want to have a life where I didn't have to constantly worry about being found out. What if Ndidi was right and that other life led to something like what had happened to Adanna, or to Adanna's two friends?

It was nearing the end of 1979. Sometimes we get confused about what happiness really means. Sometimes we get confused about what path to take to get to happiness. I looked at Chibundu, I nodded, and, wordlessly, I accepted his ring.

The next thing I knew, Chibundu was picking me up and twirling around with me in his arms, right there in the open air.

Only a month later, Mama was painting my eyelids silver and my lips a bright shade of red, and I was making my entrance as was expected of any Igbo bride: my jigida hanging from my midsection, extending down below my hips, waist beads of all different colors. I wore bangles on my wrists and ribbons on my braided locks of hair.

I entered the compound from the bungalow. I danced, waving my arms in the air, shaking my hips so that the jigida beads rattled and clinked above the wrappers beneath. The guests clapped and the drummers beat their drums.

Mama had left the gate wide open, an invitation to the villagers to come in and join the celebration. She stood near the gate as I danced, Chibundu's parents to her right and the grammar school teacher and his wife to her left. Ndidi stood at a distance from them, a woman apart, who, by all appearances, seemed to be enjoying the festivities. But I could tell from the way she stood, all alone there by the gate, that she was anxiously awaiting the moment when the festivities would conclude and she could leave. She had not bothered to greet Chibundu. The only person she took the time to greet was Mama.

The girls who formed my bridal party were just a group of Aba girls—daughters of some of Mama's friends whom Mama had recruited for the purpose of being bridesmaids. (I had insisted that I did not want any bridesmaids, and Mama had insisted that I should have them.) They danced in place. Soon, other members of the wedding party approached—Chibundu's groomsmen—breaking through the circle to throw their wads of naira bills at me. All the guests approached. The wads came apart. The bills danced about in the air like oversized feathers, then fell to the ground, spreading out like floor decorations around my feet. My bridesmaids crouched down and gathered them for me. I continued to dance, though all the while Ndidi was on my mind.

Toward the end of the celebration, Mama tugged at my shoulder, led me inside.

“You've done well. Very well,” she said. All over her face was a rabid kind of excitement, which I knew must have been a struggle for her to contain. We went into the kitchen and she pulled out a stool for me, the one on which she usually sat to pound yams with the mortar and pestle. All over the kitchen was food—plates and trays and baskets of food covering all the counters. Garden eggs, their meandering green stripes seeming to creep like roots onto their yellow-gold skin. Kola nuts. Bowls of groundnut paste. Trays of meat pies and fried chin-chin. Jerry cans full of palm wine.

“What a wonderful day for all of us,” she said. “The day we've all been waiting for.”