“Kpa, Mama, no,” Amala said. She had a high-pitched voice.
“You see, Ugwu? A boy does not belong in the kitchen.” Master’s mother sounded triumphant. She was standing by the counter, already breaking up some dried fish, extracting the needlelike bones.
“Yes, Mama.” Ugwu was surprised that she had not asked for a glass of water or gone inside to change first. He sat on the stool and waited for her to tell him what to do. It was what she wanted; he could sense that. She was looking over the kitchen now. She peered suspiciously at the stove, knocked on the pressure cooker, tapped the pots with her fingers.
“Eh! My son wastes money on these expensive things,” she said. “Do you not see, Amala?”
“Yes, Mama,” Amala said.
“Those belong to my madam, Mama. She brought many things from Lagos,” Ugwu said. It irritated him: her assuming that everything belonged to Master, her taking command of his kitchen, her ignoring his perfect jollof rice and chicken.
Master’s mother did not respond. “Amala, come and prepare the cocoyams,” she said.
“Yes, Mama.” Amala put the cocoyams in a pot and then looked helplessly at the stove.
“Ugwu, light the fire for her. We are village people who only know firewood!” Master’s mother said, with a short laugh.
Neither Ugwu nor Amala laughed. Ugwu turned the stove on. Master’s mother threw a piece of dried fish into her mouth. “Put some water to boil for me, Ugwu, and then cut these ugu leaves for the soup.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Is there a sharp knife in this house?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Use it and slice the ugu well.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Ugwu settled down with a cutting board. He knew she was watching him. When he started to slice the fibrous pumpkin leaves, she yelped, “Oh! Oh! Is this how you cut ugu? Alu melu! Make them smaller! The way you are doing it, we might as well cook the soup with the whole leaves.”
“Yes, Mama.” Ugwu began slicing the leaves in strips so thin they would break up in the soup.
“That’s better,” Master’s mother said. “You see why boys have no business in the kitchen? You cannot even slice ugu well.”
Ugwu wanted to say, Of course I slice ugu well. I do many things in the kitchen better than you do, but instead he said, “My madam and I don’t slice vegetables, we shred them with our hands because the nutrients come out better that way.”
“Your madam?” Master’s mother paused. It was as if she wanted to say something but held herself back. The steam from boiling hung in the air. “Show Amala the mortar so she can pound the cocoyams,” she said finally.
“Yes, Mama.” Ugwu rolled out the wood mortar from under the table and was rinsing it when Olanna came home. She appeared at the kitchen door; her dress was smart-fitting, her smiling face was full of light.
“Mama!” she said. “Welcome, nno. I am Olanna. Did you go well?” She reached out to hug Master’s mother. Her arms went round to enclose the older woman but Master’s mother kept her hands to her sides and did not hug Olanna back.
“Yes, our journey went well,” she said.
“Good afternoon,” Amala said.
“Welcome.” Olanna hugged Amala briefly before turning to Master’s mother. “Is this Odenigbo’s relative from home, Mama?”
“Amala helps me in the house,” Master’s mother said. She had turned her back to Olanna and was stirring the soup.
“Mama, come, let’s sit down. Bia nodu ana. You should not bother in the kitchen. You should rest. Let Ugwu do it.”
“I want to cook a proper soup for my son.”
There was a light pause before Olanna said, “Of course, Mama.” Her Igbo had slipped into the dialect that Ugwu heard in Master’s speech when his cousins visited. She walked around the kitchen, as if eager to do something to please Master’s mother but uncertain what to do. She opened the pot of rice and closed it. “At least let me help you, Mama. I’ll go and change.”
“I hear you did not suck your mother’s breasts,” Master’s mother said.