“There are no such things as spirits, Baby,” Olanna said.
“Yes, there are.”
It troubled Olanna, the things Baby was picking up here. “Did Adanna tell you that?”
“No, Chukwudi told me.”
“Where is Adanna?”
“She’s sleeping. She’s sick,” Baby said, and began to shoo away the flies that circled over Bingo’s head.
Mama Oji muttered, “I have been telling Mama Adanna that the child’s illness is not malaria. But she keeps giving her neem medicine that does nothing for her. If nobody else will say it, then I will: What Adanna has is Harold Wilson Syndrome, ho-ha.”
“Harold Wilson Syndrome?”
“Kwashiorkor. The child has kwashiorkor.”
Olanna burst out laughing. She did not know they had renamed kwashiorkor after the British prime minister, but her amusement dissipated when she went to Adanna’s room. Adanna was lying on a mat, her eyes half closed. Olanna touched her face with the back of a palm, to check for a fever, although she knew there would be none. She should have realized it earlier; Adanna’s belly was swollen and her skin was a sickly tone, much lighter than it was only weeks ago.
“This malaria is very stubborn,” Mama Adanna said.
“She has kwashiorkor,” Olanna said quietly.
“Kwashiorkor,” Mama Adanna repeated, and looked at Olanna with frightened eyes.
“You need to find crayfish or milk.”
“Milk, kwa? From where?” Mama Adanna asked. “But we have anti-kwash nearby. Mama Obike was telling me the other day. Let me go and get some.”
“What?”
“Anti-kwashiorkor leaves,” Mama Adanna said, already on her way out.
Olanna was surprised by how quickly she hitched up her wrapper and began to wade into the bush on the other side of the road. She came back moments later holding a bunch of slender green leaves. “I will cook porridge now,” she said.
“Adanna needs milk,” Olanna said. “Those won’t cure kwashiorkor.”
“Leave Mama Adanna alone. The anti-kwash leaves will work as long as she does not boil them for too long,” Mama Oji said. “Besides, the relief centers have nothing. And did you not hear that all the children in Nnewi died after drinking relief milk? The vandals had poisoned it.”
Olanna called Baby and took her inside and undressed her.
“Ugwu already gave me a bath,” Baby said, looking puzzled.
“Yes, yes, my baby,” Olanna said, examining her carefully. Her skin was still the dark color of mahogany and her hair was still black and, although she was thinner, her belly was not swollen. Olanna wished so much that the relief center was open and that Okoromadu was still there, but he had moved to Orlu after the World Council of Churches gave his job to one of the many pastors who no longer had parishes.
Mama Adanna was cooking the leaves in the kitchen. Olanna took a tin of sardines and some dried milk from t
he carton Ezeka sent and gave them to her. “Don’t tell anybody I gave you this. Give it to Adanna little by little.”
Mama Adanna grasped Olanna. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I will not tell anybody.”
But she did tell because, as Olanna left for Professor Ezeka’s office later, Mama Oji called out, “My son has asthma and milk will not kill him!”
Olanna ignored her.
———
She walked to the major road and stood under a tree. Each time a car drove past, she tried to flag it down. A soldier in a rusty station wagon stopped. She saw the leer in his eyes even before she climbed in beside him, so she exaggerated her English accent, certain that he did not understand all she said, and spoke throughout the drive about the cause and mentioned that her car and driver were at the mechanic. He said very little until he dropped her off at the directorate building. He did not know who she was or who she knew.