Half of a Yellow Sun Read Free Page A

moment, he considered thinking of her tonight. He decided not to. Not on his first night in Master’s house, on this bed that was nothing like his hand-woven raffia mat. First, hepressed his hands into the springy softness of the mattress. Then he examined the layers of cloth on top of it, unsure whether to sleep on them or to remove them and put them away before sleeping. Finally he climbed up and lay on top of the layers of cloth, his body curled in a tight knot.
    He dreamed that Master was calling him—
Ugwu, my good man!
—and when he woke up Master was standing at the door, watching him. Perhaps it had not been a dream. He scrambled out of bed and glanced at the windows with the drawn curtains, in confusion. Was it late? Had that soft bed deceived him and made him oversleep? He usually woke with the first cockcrows.
    “Good morning, sah!”
    “There is a strong roasted-chicken smell here.”
    “Sorry, sah.”
    “Where is the chicken?”
    Ugwu fumbled in his shorts pockets and brought out the chicken pieces.
    “Do your people eat while they sleep?” Master asked. He was wearing something that looked like a woman’s coat and was absently twirling the rope tied round his waist.
    “Sah?”
    “Did you want to eat the chicken while in bed?”
    “No, sah.”
    “Food will stay in the dining room and the kitchen.”
    “Yes, sah.”
    “The kitchen and bathroom will have to be cleaned today.”
    “Yes, sah.”
    Master turned and left. Ugwu stood trembling in the middle of the room, still holding the chicken pieces with his hand outstretched. He wished he did not have to walk past the dining room to get to the kitchen. Finally, he put the chicken back in his pockets, took a deep breath, and left the room. Master was atthe dining table, the teacup in front of him placed on a pile of books.
    “You know who really killed Lumumba?” Master said, looking up from a magazine. “It was the Americans and the Belgians. It had nothing to do with Katanga.”
    “Yes, sah,” Ugwu said. He wanted Master to keep talking, so he could listen to the sonorous voice, the musical blend of English words in his Igbo sentences.
    “You are my houseboy,” Master said. “If I order you to go outside and beat a woman walking on the street with a stick, and you then give her a bloody wound on her leg, who is responsible for the wound, you or me?”
    Ugwu stared at Master, shaking his head, wondering if Master was referring to the chicken pieces in some roundabout way.
    “Lumumba was prime minister of Congo. Do you know where Congo is?” Master asked.
    “No, sah.”
    Master got up quickly and went into the study. Ugwu’s confused fear made his eyelids quiver. Would Master send him home because he did not speak English well, kept chicken in his pocket overnight, did not know the strange places Master named? Master came back with a wide piece of paper that he unfolded and laid out on the dining table, pushing aside books and magazines. He pointed with his pen. “This is our world, although the people who drew this map decided to put their own land on top of ours. There is no top or bottom, you see.” Master picked up the paper and folded it, so that one edge touched the other, leaving a hollow between. “Our world is round, it never ends.
Nee anya
, this is all water, the seas and oceans, and here’s Europe and here’s our own continent, Africa, and the Congo is in the middle. Farther up here is Nigeria, and Nsukka is here, in the southeast; this is where we are.” He tapped with his pen.
    “Yes, sah.”
    “Did you go to school?”
    “Standard two, sah. But I learn everything fast.”
    “Standard two? How long ago?”
    “Many years now, sah. But I learn everything very fast!”
    “Why did you stop school?”
    “My father’s crops failed, sah.”
    Master nodded slowly. “Why didn’t your father find somebody to lend him your school fees?”
    “Sah?”
    “Your father should have borrowed!” Master snapped, and then, in