Her mother said Jesus told her in a dream that Ifemelu would prosper in America, her father pressed a slender envelope into her hand, saying, “I wish I had more,” and she realized, with sadness, that he must have borrowed it. In the face of the enthusiasim of others, she suddenly felt flaccid and afraid.
“Maybe I should stay and finish here,” she told Obinze.
“Ifem, no, you should go. Besides, you don’t even like geology. You can study something else in America.”
“But the scholarship is partial. Where will I find the money to pay the balance? I can’t work with a student visa.”
“You can do work-study at school. You’ll find a way. Seventy-five percent off your tuition is a big deal.”
She nodded, riding the wave of his faith. She visited his mother to say goodbye.
“Nigeria is chasing away its best resources,” Obinze’s mother said resignedly, hugging her.
“Aunty, I will miss you. Thank you so much for everything.”
“Stay well, my dear, and do well. Write to us. Make sure you keep in touch.”
Ifemelu nodded, tearful. As she left, already parting the curtain at the front door, Obinze’s mother said, “And make sure you and Obinze have a plan. Have a plan.” Her words, so unexpected and so right, lifted Ifemelu’s spirits. Their plan became this: he would come to America the minute he graduated. He would find a way to get a visa. Perhaps, by then, she would be able to help with his visa.
In the following years, even after she was no longer in touch with him, she would sometimes remember his mother’s words—make sure you and Obinze have a plan—and feel comforted.
CHAPTER 9
Mariama returned carrying oil-stained brown paper bags from the Chinese restaurant, trailing the smells of grease and spice into the stuffy salon.
“The film finished?” She glanced at the blank TV screen, and then flipped through the pile of DVDs to select another.
“Excuse me, please, to eat,” Aisha said to Ifemelu. She perched on a chair at the back and ate fried chicken wings with her fingers, her eyes on the TV screen. The new film began with trailers, jaggedly cut scenes interspersed with flashes of light. Each ended with a male Nigerian voice, theatrical and loud, saying “Grab your copy now!” Mariama ate standing up. She said something to Halima.
“I finish first and eat,” Halima replied in English.
“You can go ahead and eat if you want to,” Halima’s customer said, a young woman with a high voice and a pleasant manner.
“No, I finish. Just small more,” Halima said. Her customer’s head had only a tuft of hair left in front, sticking up like animal fur, while the rest was done in neat micro braids that fell to her neck.
“I have a hour before I have to go pick up my daughters,” the customer said.
“How many you have?” Halima asked.
“Two,” the customer said. She looked about seventeen. “Two beautiful girls.”
The new film had started. The grinning face of a middle-aged actress filled the screen.
“Oh-oh, yes! I like her!” Halima said. “Patience! She don’t take any nonsense!”
“You know her?” Mariama asked Ifemelu, pointing at the TV screen.
“No,” Ifemelu said. Why did they insist on asking if she knew Nollywood actors? The entire room smelled too strongly of food. It made the stuffy air rank with oiliness, and yet it also made her slightly hungry. She ate some of her carrots. Halima’s customer tilted her head this way and that in front of the mirror and said, “Thank you so much, it’s gorgeous!”
After she left, Mariama said, “Very small girl and already she has two children.”
“Oh oh oh, these people,” Halima said. “When a girl is thirteen already she knows all the positions. Never in Afrique!”
“Never!” Mariama agreed.
They looked at Ifemelu for her agreement, her approval. They expected it, in this shared space of their Africanness, but Ifemelu said nothing and turned a page of her novel. They would, she was sure, talk about her after she left. That Nigerian girl, she feels very important because of Princeton. Look at her food bar, she does not eat real food anymore. They would laugh with derision, but only a mild derision, because she was still their African sister, even if she had briefly lost her way. A new smell of oiliness flooded the room when Halima opened her plastic container of food. She was eating and talking to the television screen. “Oh, stupid man! She will take your money!”
Ifemelu brushed away at some sticky hair on her neck. The room was seething with heat. “Can we leave the door open?” she asked.