Half of a Yellow Sun

She helped him find a small flat, buy a small car, get a driving licence, go to the Lagos and Ibadan museums. ‘You must meet all my friends,’ she said. At first, when she introduced him as a writer, he wanted to correct her: journalist, not writer. But he was a writer, at least he was certain he was meant to be a writer, an artist, a creator. His journalism was temporary, something he would do until he wrote that brilliant novel.

So he let Susan introduce him as a writer. It seemed to make her friends tolerate him, anyway. It made Professor Nicholas Green suggest he apply for the foreign research grant at Nsukka, where he could write in a university environment. Richard did, not only because of the prospect of writing in a university, but also because he would be in the southeast, in the land of Igbo-Ukwu art, the land of the magnificent roped pot. That, after all, was why he had come to Nigeria.

He had been in Nigeria for a few months when Susan asked if he would like to move in with her, since her house in Ikoyi was large, the gardens were lovely, and she thought he would work much better there than in his rented flat with the uneven cement floors where his landlord moaned about his leaving his lights on for too long. Richard didn’t want to say yes. He didn’t want to stay much longer in Lagos. He wanted to do more travelling through the country while waiting to hear back from Nsukka. But Susan had already redecorated her airy study for him, so he moved in. Day after day, he sat on her leather chair and pored over books and bits of research material, looked out the window at the gardeners watering the lawn, and pounded at the typewriter, although he was aware that he was typing and not writing. Susan was careful to give him the silences he needed, except for when she would look in and whisper, ‘Would you like some tea?’ or ‘Some water?’ or ‘An early lunch?’ He answered in a whisper, too, as if his writing had become something hallowed and had made the room itself sacrosanct. He did not tell her that he had written nothing good so far, that the ideas in his head had not yet coalesced into character and setting and theme. He imagined that she would be hurt; his writing had become the best of her hobbies, and she came home every day with books and journals from the British Council Library. She saw his book as an entity that already existed and could therefore be finished. He, however, was not even sure what his subject was. But he was grateful for her faith. It was as if her believing in his writing made it real, and he showed his gratitude by attending the parties he disliked. After a few parties, he decided that attending was not enough; he would try to be funny. If he could say one witty thing when he was introduced, it might make up for his silence and, more importantly, it would please Susan. He practised a droll, self-deprecating expression and a halting delivery in front of the bathroom mirror for a while. ‘This is Richard Churchill,’ Susan would say and he would shake hands and quip, ‘No relation of Sir Winston’s, I’m afraid, or I might have turned out a little cleverer.’

Susan’s friends laughed at this, although he wondered if it was from pity at his fumbling attempt at humour more than from amusement. But nobody had ever said, ‘How funny,’ in a mocking tone, as Kainene did that first day in the cocktail room of the Federal Palace Hotel. She was smoking. She could blow perfect smoke rings. She stood in the same circle as he and Susan, and he glanced at her and thought she was the mistress of one of the politicians. He did that with the people he met, tried to guess a reason for their being there, to determine who had been brought by someone. Perhaps it was because he would not have been at any of the parties if it wasn’t for Susan. He didn’t think Kainene was some wealthy Nigerian’s daughter because she had none of the cultivated demureness. She seemed more like a mistress: her brazenly red lipstick, her tight dress, her smoking. But then she didn’t smile in that plastic way the mistresses did. She didn’t even have the generic prettiness that made him inclined to believe the rumour that Nigerian politicians swapped mistresses. In fact, she was not pretty at all. He did not really notice this until he looked at her again as a friend of Susan’s did the introductions. ‘This is Kainene Ozobia, Chief Ozobia’s daughter. Kainene’s just got her master’s from London. Kainene, this is Susan Grenville- Pitts, from the British Council, and this is Richard Churchill.’

‘How do you do,’ Susan said to Kainene, and then turned around to speak to another guest.

‘Hello,’ Richard said. Kainene was silent for too long, with her cigarette between her lips as she looked at him levelly, and so he ran his hand through his hair and mumbled, ‘I’m no relation of Sir Winston’s, I’m afraid, or I might have turned out a little cleverer.’

She exhaled before she said, ‘How funny.’ She was very thin and very tall, almost as tall as he was, and she was staring right into his eyes, with a steely blank expression. Her skin was the colour of Belgian chocolate. He spread his legs a little wider and pressed his feet down firmly, because he feared that if he didn’t he might find himself reeling, colliding with her.

Susan came back and tugged at him but he didn’t want to leave and when he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what he was going to say. ‘It turns out Kainene and I have a mutual friend in London. Did I tell you about Wilfred at the Spectator?’

‘Oh,’ Susan said, smiling. ‘How lovely. I’ll let you two catch up then. Be back in a bit.’

She exchanged kisses with an elderly couple before moving to a group at the other end of the room.

‘You just lied to your wife,’ Kainene said.

‘She’s not my wife.’ He was surprised at how giddy he felt to be left standing with her. She raised her glass to her lips and sipped. She inhaled and exhaled. Silver ashes swirled down to the floor. Everything seemed to be in slow motion: The hotel ballroom enlarged and deflated and the air was sucked in and out of a space that seemed to be, for a moment, occupied only by himself and Kainene.

‘Would you move away, please?’ she asked.

He was startled. ‘What?’

‘There is a photographer behind you who is keen to take a photo of me, and particularly of my necklace.’

He moved aside and watched as she stared at the camera. She did not pose but she looked comfortable; she was used to having her photograph taken at parties.

‘The necklace will be featured in tomorrow’s Lagos Life. I suppose that would be my way of contributing to our newly independent country. I am giving fellow Nigerians something to covet, an incentive to work hard,’ she said, coming back to stand beside him.

‘It’s a lovely necklace,’ he said, although it looked gaudy. He wanted to reach out and touch it, though, to lift it off her neck and then let it settle back against the hollow of her throat. Her collarbones jutted out sharply.

‘Of course it’s not lovely. My father has obscene taste in jewellery,’ she said. ‘But it’s his money. I see my sister and my parents looking for me, by the way. I should go.’

‘Your sister is here?’ Richard asked, quickly, before she could turn and leave.

‘Yes. We’re twins,’ she said and paused, as if that were a momentous disclosure. ‘Kainene and Olanna. Her name is the lyrical God’s Gold, and mine is the more practical Let’s watch and see what next God will bring.’

Richard watched the smile that pulled her mouth up at one end, a sardonic smile that he imagined hid something else, perhaps dissatisfaction. He didn’t know what to say. He felt as if time was slipping away from him.

‘Who is older?’ he asked.

‘Who is older? What a question.’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘I’m told I came out first.’

Richard cradled his wine glass and wondered if tightening his grasp any further would crush it.

‘There she is, my sister,’ Kainene said. ‘Shall I introduce you? Everybody wants to meet her.’

Richard didn’t turn to look. ‘I’d rather talk to you,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’ He ran his hand through his hair. She was watching him; he felt adolescent with her gaze on him.

‘You’re shy,’ she said.

‘I’ve been called worse.’

She smiled, in the way that meant she had found that funny, and he felt accomplished to have made her smile.

‘Have you ever been to the market in Balogun?’ she asked. ‘They display slabs of meat on tables, and you are supposed to grope and feel and then decide which you want. My sister and I are meat. We are here so that suitable bachelors will make the kill.’

‘Oh,’ he said. It seemed a strangely intimate thing to tell him, although it was said in the same dry, sarcastic tone that seemed natural to her. He wanted to tell her something about himself, too, wanted to exchange small kernels of intimacies with her.

‘Here comes the wife you denied,’ Kainene murmured.

Susan came back and pushed a glass into his hand. ‘Here, darling,’ she said, and then turned to Kainene. ‘How lovely to meet you.’

‘How lovely to meet you,’ Kainene said and half-raised her glass towards Susan.

Susan steered him away. ‘She’s Chief Ozobia’s daughter, is she? Whatever happened to her? Quite extraordinary; her mother is stunning, absolutely stunning. Chief Ozobia owns half of Lagos but there is something terribly nouveau riche about him. He doesn’t have much of a formal education, you see, and neither has his wife. I suppose that’s what makes him so obvious.’

Richard was usually amused by Susan’s mini-biographies, but now the whispering irritated him. He did not want the champagne; her nails were digging into his arm. She led him to a group of expatriates and stopped to chat, laughing loudly, a little drunk. He searched the room for Kainene. At first, he could not find the red dress and then he saw her standing near her father; Chief Ozobia looked expansive, with the arching hand gestures he made as he spoke, the intricately embroidered agbada, whose folds and folds of blue cloth made him even wider than he was. Mrs Ozobia was half his size and wore a wrapper and headgear made out of the same blue fabric. Richard was momentarily startled by how perfectly almond-shaped her eyes were, wide-set in a dark face that was intimidating to look at. He would never have guessed that she was Kainene’s mother, nor would he have guessed that Kainene and Olanna were twins. Olanna took after their mother, although hers was a more approachable beauty with the softer face and the smiling graciousness and the fleshy, curvy body that filled out her black dress. A body Susan would call African. Kainene looked even thinner next to Olanna, almost androgynous, her tight maxi outlining the boyishness of her hips. Richard stared at her for a long time, willing her to search for him. She seemed aloof, watching the people in their group with a now indifferent, now mocking expression. Finally, she looked up and her eyes met his and she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if she knew very well that he had been watching her. He averted his eyes. Then he looked back quickly, determined to smile this time, to make some useful gesture, but she had turned her back to him. He watched her until she left with her parents and Olanna.

Richard read the next issue of Lagos Life, and when he saw her photo, he searched her expression, looking for what he did not know. He wrote a few pages in a burst of manic productivity, fictional portraits of a tall, ebony-coloured woman with a near-flat chest. He went to the British Council Library and looked up her father in the business journals. He copied down all four of the numbers next to ozobia in the phone book. He picked up the phone many times and put it back when he heard the operator’s voice. He practised what he would say in front of the mirror, the gestures he would make, although he was aware that she would not see him if they spoke over the phone. He considered sending her a card or perhaps a basket of fruit. Finally, he called. She didn’t sound surprised to hear from him. Or perhaps it was just that she sounded too calm, while his heart hammered in his chest.

‘Would you like to meet for a drink?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Shall we say Zobis Hotel at noon? It’s my father’s, and I can get us a private suite.’

‘Yes, yes, that would be lovely.’

He hung up, shaken. He was not sure if he should be excited, if private suite was suggestive. When they met in the hotel lounge, she moved close so that he could kiss her cheek and then led the way upstairs, to the terrace, where they sat looking down at the palm trees by the swimming pool. It was a sunny, luminous day. Once in a while, a breeze swayed the palms, and he hoped it would not tousle his hair too much and that the umbrella above would keep away those unflattering ripe-tomato spots that appeared on his cheeks whenever he was out in the sun.

‘You can see Heathgrove from here,’ she said, pointing. ‘The iniquitously expensive and secretive British secondary school my sister and I attended. My father thought we were too young to be sent abroad, but he was determined that we be as European as possible.’

‘Is it the building with the tower?’

‘Yes. The entire school is just two buildings, really. There were very few of us there. It is so exclusive, many Nigerians don’t even know it exists.’ She looked into her glass for a while. ‘Do you have siblings?’

‘No. I was an only child. My parents died when I was nine.’

‘Nine. You were young.’

He was pleased that she didn’t look too sympathetic, in the false way some people did, as if they had known his parents even though they hadn’t.

‘They were very often away. It was Molly, my nanny, who really raised me. After they died, it was decided I would live with my aunt in London.’ Richard paused, pleased to feel the strangely inchoate intimacy that came with talking about himself, something he rarely did. ‘My cousins Martin and Virginia were about my age but terribly sophisticated; Aunt Elizabeth was quite grand, you see, and I was the cousin from the tiny village in Shropshire. I started thinking about running away the first day I arrived there.’

‘Did you?’

‘Many times. They always found me. Sometimes just down the street.’

‘What were you running to?’

‘What?’

‘What were you running to?’

Richard thought about it for a while. He knew he was running away from a house that had pictures of long-dead people on the walls breathing down on him. But he didn’t know what he was running towards. Did children ever think about that?

‘Maybe I was running to Molly. I don’t know.’

‘I knew what I wanted to run to. But it didn’t exist, so I didn’t leave,’ Kainene said, leaning back on her seat.

‘How so?’

She lit a cigarette, as if she had not heard his question. Her silences left him feeling helpless and eager to win back her attention. He wanted to tell her about the roped pot. He was not sure where he first read about Igbo-Ukwu art, about the native man who was digging a well and discovered the bronze castings that may well be the first in Africa, dating back to the ninth century. But it was in Colonies Magazine that he saw the photos. The roped pot stood out immediately; he ran a finger over the picture and ached to touch the delicately cast metal itself. He wanted to try explaining how deeply stirred he had been by the pot but decided not to. He would give it time. He felt strangely comforted by this thought because he realized that what he wanted most of all, with her, was time.

‘Did you come to Nigeria to run away from something?’ she asked finally.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been a loner and I’ve always wanted to see Africa, so I took leave from my humble newspaper job and a generous loan from my aunt and here I am.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you to be a loner.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re handsome. Beautiful people are not usually loners.’ She said it flatly, as if it were not a compliment, and so he hoped she did not notice that he blushed.

‘Well, I am,’ he said; he could think of nothing else to say. ‘I’ve always been.’

‘A loner and a modern-day explorer of the Dark Continent,’ she said dryly.

He laughed. The sound spilt out of him, uncontrolled, and he looked down at the clear, blue pool and thought, blithely, that perhaps that shade of blue was also the colour of hope.

They met the next day for lunch, and the day after. Each time, she led the way to the suite and they sat on the terrace and ate rice and drank cold beer. She touched her glass rim with the tip of her tongue before she sipped. It aroused him, that brief glimpse of pink tongue, more so because she didn’t seem conscious of it. Her silences were brooding, insular, and yet he felt a connection to her. Perhaps it was because she was distant and withdrawn. He found himself talking in a way he usually didn’t, and when their time ended and she got up, often to join her father at a meeting, he felt his feet thicken with curdled blood. He did not want to leave, could not bear the thought of going back to sit in Susan’s study and type and wait for Susan’s subdued knocks. He did not understand why Susan suspected nothing, why she could not simply look at him and tell how different he felt, why she did not even notice that he splashed on more aftershave now. He had not been unfaithful to her, of course, but fidelity could not just be about sex. His laughing with Kainene, telling Kainene about Aunt Elizabeth, watching Kainene smoke, surely had to be infidelities; they felt so. His quickened heartbeat when Kainene kissed him goodbye was an infidelity. Her hand clasped in his on the table was an infidelity. And so the day Kainene did not give him the usual goodbye kiss and instead pressed her mouth to his, lips parted, he was surprised. He had not permitted himself to hope for too much. Perhaps it was why an erection eluded him: the gelding mix of surprise and desire. They undressed quickly. His naked body was pressed to hers and yet he was limp. He explored the angles of her collarbones and her hips, all the time willing his body and his mind to work better together, willing his desire to bypass his anxiety. But he did not become hard. He could feel the flaccid weight between his legs.

She sat up in bed and lit a cigarette.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and when she shrugged and said nothing, he wished he had not apologized. There was something dismal in the luxurious overfurnished suite, as he pulled on trousers that might just as well have stayed on and she hooked her bra. He wished she would say something.

‘Shall we meet tomorrow?’ he asked.

She blew the smoke through her nose and, watching it disappear in the air, asked, ‘This is crude, isn’t it?’

‘Shall we meet tomorrow?’ he asked again.

‘I’m going to Port Harcourt with my father to meet some oil people,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be back after noon on Wednesday. We could have a late lunch.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ Richard said, and until she met him in the hotel lobby, days later, he worried that she would not come. They had lunch and watched the swimmers below.

She was a little more animated, smoked more, spoke more. She told him about the people she had met since she began to work with her father, how they were all the same. ‘The new Nigerian upper class is a collection of illiterates who read nothing and eat food they dislike at overpriced Lebanese restaurants and have social conversations around one subject: ‘How’s the new car behaving?” Once, she laughed. Once, she held his hand. But she did not ask him into the suite and he wondered if she wanted to give it time or if she had decided that it was not the sort of relationship she wanted with him after all.

He could not bring himself to act. Days passed before she finally asked if he wanted to go inside, and he felt like an understudy who hoped the actor would not show up and then, when the actor finally did fail to come, became crippled by awkwardness, not quite as ready as he had thought he was for the stage lights. She led the way inside. When he began to pull her dress up above her thighs, she pushed him away calmly, as if she knew his frenzy was simply armour for his fear. She hung her dress over the chair. He was so terrified of failing her again that seeing himself erect made him deliriously grateful, so grateful that he was only just inside her before he felt that involuntary tremble that he could not stop. They lay there, he on top of her, for a while, and then he rolled off. He wanted to tell her that this had never happened to him before. His sex life with Susan was satisfactory, though perfunctory.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

She lit a cigarette, watching him. ‘Would you like to come to dinner tonight? My parents have invited a few people.’

For a moment, he was taken aback. Then he said, ‘Yes, I’d love to.’ He hoped the invitation meant something, reflected a change in her perception of the relationship. But when he arrived at her parents’ house in Ikoyi, she introduced him by saying, ‘This is Richard Churchill,’ and then stopped with a pause that felt like a deliberate dare to her parents and the other guests to think what they would. Her father looked him over and asked what he did.

‘I’m a writer,’ he said.

‘A writer? I see,’ Chief Ozobia said.

Richard wished he hadn’t said he was a writer and so he added, as if to make up for saying he was a writer, ‘I’m fascinated by the discoveries at Igbo-Ukwu. The bronze castings.’

‘Hmm,’ Chief Ozobia murmured. ‘Do you have any family doing business in Nigeria?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

Chief Ozobia smiled and looked away. He didn’t say very much else to Richard for the rest of the evening. Neither did Mrs Ozobia, who followed her husband around, her manner regal, her beauty more intimidating close up. Olanna was different. Her smile was guarded when Kainene introduced them, but as they talked, she became warmer and he wondered if the flicker in her eyes was pity, if she could tell how keen he was to say the right things and yet didn’t know what those right things were. Her warmth flattered him.

He felt strangely bereft when she sat far from him at the table. The salad had just been served when she began to discuss politics with a guest. Richard knew it was about the need for Nigeria to become a republic and stop claiming Queen Elizabeth as head of state, but he did not pay close attention until she turned to him and asked, ‘Don’t you agree, Richard?’ as if his opinion mattered.

He cleared his throat. ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he said, even though he was¬n’t sure what it was he was agreeing with. He felt grateful that she had pulled him into the conversation, included him, and he was charmed by that quality of hers that seemed both sophisticated and naive, an idealism that refused to be suffocated by gritty reality. Her skin glowed. Her cheekbones rose as she smiled. But she lacked Kainene’s melancholy mystique, which exhilarated and confused him. Kainene sat next to him and said little throughout dinner, once sharply asking a steward to change a glass that looked cloudy, once leaning over to ask, ‘The sauce is nauseating, isn’t it?’ She was mostly inscrutable, watching, drinking, smoking. He ached to know what she was thinking. He felt a similar physical pain when he desired her, and he would dream about being inside her, thrusting as deep as he could, to try and discover something that he knew he never would. It was like drinking glass after glass of water and still emerging thirsty, and with the stirring fear that he would never quench the thirst.

Richard worried about Susan. He would watch her, the firm chin and green eyes, and tell himself that it was unfair to deceive her, to skulk in the study until she fell asleep, to lie to her about being at the library or museum or polo club. She deserved better. But there was a reassuring stability to being with her, a certain safety in her whispering and her study room with the pencil sketches of Shakespeare on the walls. Kainene was different. He left Kainene full of a giddy happiness and an equally dizzying sense of insecurity. He wanted to ask her what she thought of the things they never discussed – their relationship, a future, Susan – but his uncertainties muted him each time; he was afraid of what her answers would be.