“She didn’t need to teach you how to make soap. I don’t see you making soap anyway.”
“You think I can’t?”
“She should simply have apologized.”
“I think I overreacted because it was about Kainene.” Olanna shifted. “I wonder if Kainene got my letters.”
Odenigbo said nothing. He took her hand and she felt grateful that there were things she did not need to explain to him.
“How much hair does Mrs. Muokelu have on her chest?” he asked. “Do you know?”
Olanna was not sure if he began to laugh first or if she did, but suddenly they were laughing, raucously, almost falling off the bench. Other things became hilarious. Odenigbo said that the sky was completely cloudless and Olanna told him that it was perfect weather for bomber planes, and they laughed. A little boy walking past wearing a pair of shorts with large holes that showed his dry-skinned buttocks greeted them and they had hardly responded good afternoon before they burst into more laughter. The laughter had not died on their faces and their hands were still clasped on the bench when Special Julius walked into the compound. His tunic glittered with sequins.
“I’ve brought the best palm wine in Umuahia! Ask Ugwu to bring some glasses,” he said, and put a small jerry can down. There was an optimistic affluence about him and his flamboyant clothes, as if there were no problem he could not solve. After Ugwu brought the glasses, Special Julius said, “Have you heard that Harold Wilson is in Lagos? He is bringing the British army to finish us off. They say he came with two battalions.”
“Sit down, my friend, and stop talking rubbish,” Odenigbo said.
Special Julius laughed and slurped his drink noisily. “I am talking rubbish, okwa ya? Where is the radio? Lagos may not tell the world that the British prime minister has come to help them kill us, but maybe those crazy people in Kaduna will.”
Baby came out. “Uncle Julius, good afternoon.”
“Baby-Baby. How is your cough? Is it better?” He dipped a finger into his palm wine and put it in her mouth. “This should help your cough.”
Baby licked her lips, looking pleased.
“Julius!” Olanna said.
Special Julius waved airily. “Never underestimate the power of alcohol.”
“Come and sit with me, Baby,” Olanna said. Baby’s dress was frayed, worn too often. Olanna settled her on her lap and held her close. At least Baby was not coughing so much now; at least Baby was eating.
Odenigbo picked up the radio from underneath the bench. A shrill sound pierced the air, and at first Olanna thought it had come from the radio before she realized it was the air raid alarm. She sat still. Somebody from the house nearby screamed, “Enemy plane!” at the same time as Special Julius shouted, “Take cover!” and leaped across the veranda, overturning the palm wine. Neighbors were running, shouting words that Olanna could not understand because the stubborn searing sound had shrilled its way into her head. She slipped on the wine and fell on her knee. Odenigbo pulled her up before he grabbed Baby and ran. The strafing had started—pellets raining down from above—as Odenigbo held the zinc sheet open while they all crawled down into the bunker. Odenigbo climbed in last. Ugwu was clutching a spoon smeared with soup. Olanna slapped at the crickets; their faintly moist bodies felt slimy against her fingers, and even when they were no longer perched on her, she still slapped her arms and legs. The first explosion sounded distant. Others followed, closer, louder, and the earth shook. Voices around her were shouting, “Lord Jesus! Lord Jesus!” Her bladder felt painfully, solidly full, as though it would burst and release not urine but the garbled prayers she was muttering. A woman was crumpled next to her, holding a child, a little boy younger than Baby. The bunker was dim but Olanna could see crusty-white ringworm marks all over the child’s body. Another explosion shook the ground. Then the sounds stopped. The air was so still that, as they climbed out of the bunker, they could hear the caw-caw-caw of some birds far off. Burning smells filled the air.
“Our antiaircraft fire was wonderful! O di egwu!” somebody said.
“Biafra win the war!” Special Julius started the song and soon most of the people on the street had gathered to join in.
Biafra win the war.
Armored car, shelling machine,
Fighter and bomber,
Ha enweghi ike imeri Biafra!
Olanna watched as Odenigbo sang lustily, and she tried to sing too, but the words lay stale on her tongue. There was a sharp pain in her knee; she took Baby’s hand and went indoors.
She was giving Baby an evening bath when the siren alarm sounded again and she grabbed Baby naked and ran from the outhouse. Baby nearly slipped from her grasp. The swift roar of planes and the sharp ka-ka-ka of antiaircraft gunfire came from above and from below and from the sides and made her teeth chatter. She slumped in the bunker and ignored the crickets.
“Where is Odenigbo?” she asked, after a while, grabbing Ugwu’s arm. “Where is your master?”
“He is here, mah,” Ugwu said, looking around.
“Odenigbo!” Olanna called. But he did not answer. She did not remember seeing him come into the bunker. He was still up there somewhere. The explosion that followed shook the inside of her ear loose; she was sure that if she bent her head sideways, something hard-soft like cartilage would fall out. She moved to the entrance of the bunker. Behind her, she heard Ugwu say, “Mah? Mah?” A woman from down the street said, “Come back! Where are you going? Ebe ka I na-eje?” but she ignored them both and scrambled out of the bunker.
The sun’s brilliance was startling; it made her feel faint. She ran, her heart hurting her chest, shouting, “Odenigbo! Odenigbo!” until she saw him bent over somebody on the ground. She looked at his bare hairy chest and his new beard and his torn slippers, and suddenly his mortality—their mortality—struck her with a clutch at her throat, a squeeze of alarm. She held him tightly. A house down the road was on fire.
“Nkem, it’s okay,” Odenigbo said. “A bullet hit him but it looks like a flesh wound.” He pushed her away and went back to the man, whose arm he was tying up with his shirt.