Mama flew up from her stool. “Why? Why?”
“Nwunye m, sit down right now!” Aunty Ifeoma snapped.
But Mama did not sit down. She went into Aunty Ifeoma’s room and called Papa. The phone rang shortly afterward, and I knew he had called back. She emerged from the room after about a quarter of an hour.
“We are leaving tomorrow. The children and I,” she said, staring straight ahead, above everyone’s eye level.
“Leaving for where?” Aunty Ifeoma asked.
“Enugu. We’re going back home.”
“Has a nut come loose in your head, gbo? You are not going anywhere.”
“Eugene is coming himself to pick us up.”
“Listen to me.” Aunty Ifeoma softened her voice; she must have known the firm voice would not penetrate the fixed smile on Mama’s face. Mama’s eyes were still glazed, but she looked like a different woman from the one who had come out of the taxi that morning. She looked possessed by a different demon. “At least stay a few days, nwunye m, don’t go back so soon.”
Mama shook her head. Except for the stiff stretch of her lips, she was expressionless. “Eugene has not been well. He has been having migraines and fever,” she said. “He is carrying more than any man should carry. Do you know what Ade’s death did to him? It is too much for one person.”
“Ginidi, what are you saying?” Aunty Ifeoma swiped impatiently at an insect that flew close to her ears. “When Ifediora was alive, there were times, nwunye m, when the university did not pay salaries for months. Ifediora and I had nothing, eh, yet he never raised a hand to me.”
“Do you know that Eugene pays the school fees of up to a hundred of our people? Do you know how many people are alive because of your brother?”
“That is not the point and you know it.”
“Where would I go if I leave Eugene’s house? Tell me, where would I go?” She did not wait for Aunty Ifeoma to respond. “Do you know how many mothers pushed their daughters at him? Do you know how many asked him to impregnate them, even, and not to bother paying a bride price?”
“And so? I ask you—and so?” Aunty Ifeoma was shouting now.
Mama lowered herself to the floor. Obiora had spread a mat and there was room on it, but she sat on the bare cement, resting her head against the railings. “You have come again with your university talk, Ifeoma,” she said, mildly, and then looked away . to signal that the conversation was over.
I had never seen Mama like tha
t, never seen that look in her eyes, never heard her say so much in such a short time.
Long after she and Aunty Ifeoma had gone to bed, I sat on the verandah with Amaka and Obiora, playing whot—Obiora had taught me to play all the card games.
“Last card!” Amaka announced, smug, placing down a card.
“I hope Aunty Beatrice sleeps well,” Obiora said, picking up a card. “She should have taken a mattress. The mat is hard.”
“She’ll be fine,” Amaka said. She looked at me and repeated, “She’ll be fine.”
Obiora reached out and patted my shoulder. I did not know what to do, so I asked “It’s my turn?” even though I knew it was.
“Uncle Eugene is not a bad man, really,” Amaka said. “People have problems, people make mistakes.”
“Mh,” Obiora said, pushing his glasses up.
“I mean, some people can’t deal with stress,” Amaka said, looking at Obiora as though she expected him to say something. He remained silent, examining the card he held up to his face.
Amaka picked up an extra card. “He paid for Papa-Nnukwu’s funeral, after all.” She was still watching Obiora. But he made no response to her; instead, he placed his card down and said, “Check up!” He had won again.
As I lay in bed, I did not think about going back to Enugu; I thought about how many card games I had lost.
WHEN PAPA ARRIVED in the Mercedes, Mama packed our bags herself and put them in the car. Papa hugged Mama, holding her close, and she rested her head on his chest. Papa had lost weight; usually, Mama’s small hands barely went round to his back, but this time her hands rested on the small of his back. I did not notice the rashes on his face until I came close to hug him. They were like tiny pimples, each with whitish pus at the tips, and they covered the whole of his face, even his eyelids. His face looked swollen, oily, discolored. I had intended to hug him and have him kiss my forehead, but instead I stood there and stared at his face.
“I have a little allergy,” he said. “Nothing serious.”