Showing posts with label Stephen Harper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stephen Harper. Show all posts

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Books.

Pretending thought is linear has its consolations.
Up, Down, Appendices, Postscript.

STOP HARPER!I have not felt this optimistic in a long time ... and most days I can barely walk. :-)This bit has to be first so the logo can be up-front.

Despite a few naïvetés, the worst being apparently flattered by praise from the likes of Michael Moore, the energy does seem to be building around STOP HARPER!

I lay in bed the other night dreaming of papering the town with sticky replicas of Brigette DePape's artwork: every telephone pole, every streetcar seat, every subway window, every car bumper ... and most days I can barely walk.

STOP HARPER!This is a good idea too - a small easily made stencil can quickly turn every stop sign more ... eloquent, elegant & ... efficacious(?)

Brigett has set up a fund:

Go there and make a small donation, right NOW!

And she has published a piece in The (Toronto) Star.

That she could be called contemptuous, when it is Stephen Harper and his Government who are truely and officially in contempt of Parliament, is so silly ... it shows us all exactly where such voices are coming from. And the Lame tame Left Libs - L!L!L! - Bob Rae & Justin Trudeau & Elizabeth May (Raysie Justinne & Maysie, aka Flopsy Topsy & Mopsy) do not answer my emails asking (politely) for justification of their condemnation of this heroic girl.

As promised last week ... Chico Buarque is a smart guy, and with heart. In this tune he conflates past and present, and at the end, throws in the future too. In a way it is a song for that last line in Northrop Frye's The Double Vision:
"In the double vision of a spiritual and a physical world simultaneously present, every moment we have lived through we have also died out of into another order. Our life in the resurrection, then, is already here, and waiting to be recognized."
 João e Maria

Agora eu era o herói
E o meu cavalo só falava inglês
A noiva do cowboy
Era você além das outras três
Eu enfrentava os batalhões
Os alemães e seus canhões
Guardava o meu bodoque
E ensaiava o rock para as matinês

Agora eu era o rei
Era o bedel e era também juiz
E pela minha lei
A gente era obrigado a ser feliz
E você era a princesa que eu fiz coroar
E era tão linda de se admirar
Que andava nua pelo meu país

Não, não fuja não
Finja que agora eu era o seu brinquedo
Eu era o seu pião
O seu bicho preferido
Vem, me dê a mão
A gente agora já não tinha medo
No tempo da maldade
Acho que a gente nem tinha nascido

Agora era fatal
Que o faz-de-conta terminasse assim
Pra lá deste quintal
Era uma noite que não tem mais fim
Pois você sumiu no mundo
Sem me avisar
E agora eu era um louco a perguntar
O que é que a vida vai fazer de mim?
 Hansel and Gretel

Now, I was the hero
And my horse only spoke English
The cowboy's bride
Was you, along with three others
I faced the battalions
The Germans and their cannons
I kept my bow
And practiced rock for the matinées

Now, I was the king
It was the prefect and also the judge
And by my law
We had to be happy
And you were the princess I crowned
And it was so beautiful to admire you
Who walked naked through my country

No, don't run away, no
Pretend that I am still your toy
I was your spinning top
Your favorite stuffed animal
Come, give me your hand
Now, We were still not afraid
At the time of evil
I think we had not even been born

Now I know it was fatal
That make-believe would end like this
From this backyard to there
Was a night that has no end
Because you disappeared from the world
Without telling me
And now I was crazy enough to ask
What will life do with me?

I have been remembering old loves ... There I was in 1970, living in Paradise and didn't know any better than to abandon it the next year. Ai ai ai!

One evening as we walked up the hill and across the Stone Bridge, the moon was rising somewhere over Freshwater on the other side of the bay, huge and red it seemed to fill the sky ... I knew a man, he is dead now, who said of his middle-aged wife, "Ah, her breath is sweet ..."

Speaking of conflation we have ... lies, damned lies, & ... numbers.

Pick a number from 1-9. Multiply by 3. Add 3. Multiply by 3 again. Add the two digits together to find the number of the movie you are most likely to enjoy from this list:

 1. The Graduate
2. Pierrot le fou
3. V For Vendetta
4. Doubt
5. To Kill A Mockingbird
6. The English Patient
7. Skin
8. The Collector
9. The Joy of Anal Sex With A Goat
 10. Casablanca
11. Rabbit-Proof Fence
12. Winters Bone
13. Wall-E
14. Bliss
15. Smilla's Sense Of Snow
16. Zabriskie Point
17. Miracle Mile
18. The Magus

Clever huh? (If you didn't get 9 then you simply can't do mental arithmetic.)

OK, this is the meat of the matter this week, right here ... two books:

Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed by Jared Diamond, 2005, available at the Toronto Public Library or Abe's; and,


Climate Change Denial: Heads in the Sand by Haydn Washington & John Cook, not at the library for some reason, but described here. Don't buy it, wait for your library to catch up, for reasons to be explained.


This is not going to be a comprehensive book review or anything. The question is: Who can you trust? Somewhere or other Northrop Frye praised Thomas Pynchon for 'the paranoid method' (see The Double Vision, Chapter 2):
"Thomas Pynchon's remarkable novel Gravity's Rainbow is a book that seems to me to have grasped a central principle of this situation. The human being, this novel tells us, is instinctively paranoid: We are first of all expressly convinced that the world was made for us and designed in detail for our benefit and appreciation. As soon as we are afflicted by doubts about this, we plunge into the other aspect of paranoia, feel that our environment is absurd and alienating, and that we are uniquely accursed in being aware, unlike any other organism in nature, of our own approaching mortality. Pynchon makes it clear that this paranoia can be and is transformed into creative energy and becomes the starting point of everything that humanity has done in the arts and sciences."
So, I am providing a few resources as I get to know these people a little better to see if I can trust them, that's all.

Jared Diamond.Jared Diamond.Jared Diamond.I read Jared Diamond's book, Collapse a year or so ago, but got tangled up in details - he doesn't quite deal with rats as a major cause of Easter Island deforestation and so on - and then I arrived at his Chapter 15: Big Businesses and the Environment: Different Conditions, Different Outcomes, read his whitewash greenwash on Chevron in Papua New Guinea, and was gobsmacked!

Here's a longish video of a talk at TED in 2003, you can easily find others. It is canned, he has done it many times before in about the same words and gestures, all good.

I have now gone back and re-read his Easter Island story, and it is so well written! The man is a natural-born teacher; piss-pot hat, comb-over, funny beard and all - his lectures must be worth standing up for, and the story, viewed as a whole, washes.

How then to explain the Chevron bullshit? I simply can't believe that he believes it - lame eh? The quality of writing is off too - as if it is something-that-must-be-done, an unpleasant duty, maybe it was bought and paid for? But surely he doesn't need cash that badly?

There is a name for beards cut like that ... but I can't remember it?

In the end I can't say why he did it, don't know. My guess is that the notion that capitalism is going to somehow save the day is like the notion that nuclear energy is going to save the day: adopted when all other apparent alternatives have been un-proven; adopted because it somehow nicely fits the narrative, and because you have to say something.

There was controversy in 2008 around Jared Diamond; has to be said because it is similar to the Colin Turnbull fabrication in ways ... you can find out about it if you want to beginning with Diamond's concocted (?) story in Atlantic ... no The New Yorker, Vengeance Is Ours: What can tribal societies tell us about our need to get even?: abstract ... and here is the complete thing in pdf.

As for Collapse, I was going to post excerpts but the chapters are long and there are lots of cheap copies at Abe's. Get it - read it, well worth the time.

I had an email from Tainter on his verbatim recapitulation of Turnbull's Ik story. He claims not to be aware of the controversy, not to have read the papers (so I sent him copies which he has not responded to). Maybe he will read them, maybe not, but again I think the notion slipped in there simply because ... it somehow fits the narrative, completes the story in some sense 'properly', has been seamlessly welded into the canon of archetypes or the social imaginary or whatever you want to call it.

And Jared Diamond did write that chapter on Chevron, so there is a bottom line to it.

John Cook.John Cook & Haydn Washington.Haydn Washington.The other one, Climate Change Denial: Heads in the Sand, is like a greasy lump of hair & nail-clippings blocking the J-trap in the sink. Very irritating that they have not built on Clive Hamilton's promising ideas, and have instead produced a poorly written, grossly over-footnoted, entirely unstructured right from the micro- to the macro-level, and sophomoric in the extreme, load of clap-trap ... What's in it is true of course, but ... Bleah! A veritable hair-ball of a book!

ACK!It is a problem because such books as this could be capable of drawing people in, convincing them - which in my experience here in Toronto is not happening, everywhere I go I see the same pundits and adherents. This book is probably being read by the choir and trilled about to those who are already convinced.

Anyway, that's it - count me out of the choir; I am not going to buy anymore of these books. Dumb & Dumber and Cheech & Chong are okay if you are drunk or stoned enough, but no more of this dreck & drivvle, not on my nickle! ... either they will come to the library eventually and I will see them then, or I will give them a miss.

Naomi Oreskes 2010 in Toronto.Naomi Oreskes 2010 in Toronto.Naomi Oreskes 2010 in Toronto.Naomi Oreskes' excellent preface is the only part worth saving; and a précis too, almost; so I have reproduced it below. I am surprised she lent her name to this book? I can't believe she read it. She calls it a 'fine book' - incredible!

The editing is patchy as well ... maybe, what with EarthScan changing hands, the editors just let this one fall through a crack. Even Oreskes' preface has at least two typos.

No cheap copies of her other one around, if that's any indication ... Merchants of doubt: how a handful of scientists obscured the truth on issues from tobacco smoke to global warming with Erik Conway, 2010.

Sorry Harold, but I'm reducing our carbon footprint.Too harsh by half ... Naomi Oreskes' essay did make it worthwhile.

Here, get to know her a bit better: at York University last fall with a video. The 5 min introduction is interesting too ... what you have to put up with in the way of academic politics ... the guy seems to think that nuclear war is on a par with climate change (Doh!?)
The only thing that is good without qualification is a sense of humour. Kant said that. :-)
She used that New Yorker cartoon to end one of her presentations, and I liked it.

Addendum: A post at ClimateInsight around some of the issues raised by Naomi.

Rihanna in Toronto.Rihanna in Toronto.Rihanna in Toronto.Rihanna in Toronto.Rihanna in Toronto.Just wondering eh? ... (as I have wondered a few times recently: here here & here) There is no connection of course between: Lady Gaga promoting a 10 year-old Maria Aragon (who has taken full advantage); and Rihanna's performance in Toronto last week; and the daughter of an hispanic ex-carpenter, Juan & his wife who was raped by 19 black men in Cleveland Texas; and the SlutWalks being promoted in a fury of correctitude because Michael Sanguinetti, a Toronto cop (who has now been sent away for 're-education') had the temerity to suggest a connection between the way you look and your likelihood of being raped. Doh!?

Stephen Harper is Lord Gaga.And there is no connection between any of that and our arrogant & contemptuous Stephen Harper? No, of course not! It is arrogant & contemptuous to even think so!

And yes, we had an election and the election is over and Harper threaded the needle, split the middle, and won a majority. Is that par for a complacent mediocrity of a bunch of bourgeois twits? I don't know enough history to say.

Here is what I will say: We have until about 2015 to turn CO2 and equivalent greenhouse gas emissions around or we are collectively cooked. Harper's majority will just be ending in 2015 - too late! So


STOP HARPER!
Any way you decently can, gentle reader.

I don't care if I do die do die do die do. :-)(My kids all figgure I will die by TASER anyway, an' I don't wanna disappoint 'em.)

Be well.
(Oops! Forgot the music ... this has been running through my head all week, from the movie Eu Tu Eles which is where I first heard it, and here he is, singing it last year in Rio, gettin' old but still gettin' on! É, né? Baião da Penha.)

Postscript:

Falb Saraiva de Farias.Altino Machado interviewed Falb Saraiva de Farias: on video, and published articles here & here & here.

Brazil.I sort'a wanted to make a transcript and translate it all, because here seems to be the story of a man who claims on the order of 50,000 square miles of the Amazon rain forest.

That's right, miles, here, 12.7 million hectares, do the arithmetic; which, if it were all together and square, would be about 225 miles on a side - visible, as they say, from space.

Newfoundland.Altino Machado gets high marks with me for this interview. He seems to hold himself in check without being in any degree false, in order to get the whole story. How rare is that? The resulting story contains much of what is necessary to understand Sr. Falb Saraiva de Farias, his history & development as a poor man in Brazil who made it big - he is arguably the biggest landowner in the world.

That's bigger than the entire island of Newfoundland at 43,000 square miles, dig it.

That these experienced and talented men can utter such meek bleats ... Rick Salutin & Paul Krugman ... it is as if they are capable of building a ramp to jump the Snake River Canyon, and they do build it, and then at the last instant they go off to the side and sit staring ...

OK, here it is, here's the next piece: Clive Hamilton and Naomi Oreskes get to the point of recognizing fear as the dominant feature of what underpins denialist positions. And it's good, it's close ... but we are not all cowards. We know about fear and have, each and every one of us to some degree, overcome it.

So why are we not taking up the obvious scientific truth of what is happening? It's because we don't trust scientists any more than we trust greed-head commerce and politicians. Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast is as good an example as any, or Lord of the Rings ... and the mythic nut of these stories points straight at the reality of what we have seen happen in our lives, and in the lives of the previous generation, explicitly, factually, concretely.

Who is the greatest scientist ever? Well ... Einstein, obviously. And what did his e=mc2 lead to? The atomic bomb. Nuclear energy. And it is the same right on up through genetically modified 'Roundup-Ready' soy beans. Even the petty stuff: cheaper and cheaper goods, less and less fit for human use or consumption, more and more pollution and waste; and where did all this shit come from? Scientists! And how did we have it delivered? Up the ass!

The Green Revolution? Borlaug the hero? Where did it lead us? To large numbers of Indian farmers standing in their fields drinking pesticide.

Yeah ... if some bodunk red neck doesn't want to be told what to do by scientists and their economic beneficiaries and political masters - I can dig it. In fact ... Me too!

Yeah but - this is different eh?! This is serious! And so it is. But for Naomi Oreskes to get the point across she is first going to have to acknowledge the actual history - and that is going to make it a very tough sell indeed.

That's one side of it; as for the other side, as for what is in the hearts of the Koch brothers, and Stephen Harper, and Tim Ball and Lawrence Solomon, and all the rest all of their troglodyte adherents?

I have no fucking idea!
None.

Appendices:

1. Why I did it: Senate page explains her throne speech protest, Brigette DePape, June 8 2011.


2. The strange, and very political, death of hope, Rick Salutin, June 2 2011.


3. Rule by Rentiers, Paul Krugman, June 9 2011.


4. Climate Change Denial: Heads in the Sand Foreword, Naomi Oreskes, January 2011.




Why I did it: Senate page explains her throne speech protest, Brigette DePape, June 8 2011.

I am moved by the excitement and energy with which people from all walks of life across this country greeted my action in the Senate.

One person alone cannot accomplish much, but they must at least do what they can. So I held out my “Stop Harper” sign during the throne speech because I felt I had a responsibility to use my position to oppose a government whose values go against the majority of Canadians.

The thousands of positive comments shared online, the printing of “Stop Harper” buttons and stickers and lawn signs, and the many calls for further action convinced me that this is not merely a country of people dissatisfied with Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s vision for Canada.

It is a country of people burning with desire for change.

If I was able to do what I did, I know that there are thousands of others capable of equal, or far more courageous, acts.

I think those who reacted with excitement realize that politics should not be left to the politicians, and that democracy is not just about marking a ballot every few years. It is about ensuring, with daily engagement and resistance, that the vision we have for our society is reflected in the decision-making of our government.

Our views are not represented by our political system. How else could we have a government that 60 per cent of the people voted against? A broken system is what has left us with a Conservative government ready to spend billions on fighter jets we don’t need, to pollute the environment we want protected, to degrade a health-care system we want improved, and to cut social programs and public sector jobs we value. As a page, I witnessed one irresponsible bill after another pass through the Senate, and wanted to scream “Stop.”

Such a system leads us to feel isolated, powerless and hopeless — thousands of Canadians made that clear in their responses to my action. We need a reminder that there are alternatives. We need a reminder that we have both the capacity to create change, and an obligation to. If my action has been that reminder, it was a success.

Media and politicians have argued that I tarnished the throne speech, a solemn Canadian tradition. I now believe more in another tradition — the tradition of ordinary people in this country fighting to create a more just and sustainable world, using peaceful direct action and civil disobedience.

On occasion, that tradition has found an inspiring home within Parliament: In 1970, for instance, a group of young women chained themselves to the parliamentary gallery seats to protest the Canadian law that criminalized abortion. Their action won national attention, and helped propel a movement that eventually achieved abortion’s legalization.

Was such an action “appropriate”? Not in the conventional sense. But those women were driven by insights known to every social movement in history: that the ending of injustices or the winning of human rights are never gifts from rulers or from parliaments, but the fruit of struggle and of people power in the streets.

Actions like these provide the answer to the Harper government. When Harper tries to push through policies and legislation that hurt our communities and country, we all need to find our inner activist, and flow into the streets. And what is a stop sign after all, but a nod to the symbol of the street where a people amassed can put the brakes on the Harper government?

I’ve been inspired by Canadians taking action, and inspired too by my peers rising up in North Africa and the Middle East. I am honoured to have since received a message from young activists there, saying that we need not just an Arab spring but a “world spring,” using people power to combat whatever ills exists in each country.

I have been inspired most of all by Asmaa Mahfouz, the 26-year-old woman who issued a video calling for Egyptians to join her in Tahrir Square. People did, and they together made the Egyptian revolution. Her words will always stay with me: “As long as you say there is no hope, then there will be no hope, but if you go and take a stand, then there will be hope.”


The strange, and very political, death of hope, Rick Salutin, June 2 2011.

Hope is indispensable in public and private life. I don’t mean brainless optimism in the face of facts. I mean hope that finds a way to persist in honest awareness of how bad things are.

Take the economy. Everyone knows that the disaster of 2008, which has clearly not gone away, had nothing to do with excess government spending. It had/has to do with other things: loss of good jobs; wage stagnation; jumps in consumer debt to cover the losses; “financialization”; fraud; greed; lack of oversight — blah blah blah. Any rise in deficits came mainly from bailouts to banks, or needless warmaking. The point is: The catastrophe had/has no connection to government social or economic spending. Yet the only solutions proposed everywhere are public spending cuts.

Ordinary people know, or sense, that this is stupid. Even in the U.S., a poll this year found only 20 per cent thought deficit reduction validated cuts in pensions or medicare. Only 25 per cent would reduce education spending to balance the budget. Even public support to the arts had majority support. They have their heads screwed on; they know where the real problems are and aren’t.

But — and here’s where hope comes in, or flies out the door — governments slash anyway. Not just in crisis cases like Greece, Portugal and Spain. But in the U.S., U.K. and here, as we’re told to expect in next week’s budget. Please note that in many cases these pointless, unwarranted cuts are made by “left” governments. The three European governments all have “socialist” in their names. Barack Obama has joined the attack in the U.S.

What will the effect on people be? Cuts that they know are unjustified, and probably damaging, and which they often explicitly voted against — will be made. What is the point of voting, or even bothering to think about these matters? This is how hope in public participation dies, or is killed off.

Let me note a special Canadian role in this hopicide. I’m thinking of Paul Martin, finance minister in the Liberal Chrétien government of the 1990s. The Liberals rose to power promising to reconsider free trade, end the GST and give the country universal child care. They did none. Instead they focused obsessively on ending the deficit by slashing public programs. Martin went from year to year and program to program like one of the manic unsubs on Criminal Minds. At the end there was no hope left for government activity. When he finally became prime minister and tried to compensate with a bit of child care, it was hopelessly late. The voters turned him out.

Recently the Mercatus Center in the U.S. hailed Martin a hero and urged their own leaders to emulate him. In case you aren’t familiar with Mercatus, it’s a right wing think-tank funded by the far-right Koch brothers and dedicated to ending government activity wherever possible, including limits on truckers’ hours and on arsenic in drinking water. This will be Martin’s legacy: verbal monuments erected with right-wing U.S. money to the death of public hope.

Where do people turn when leaders and parties that promised to do what seemed to make sense, betray them? Either to despair or to themselves. That often means: into the streets, where the battles for democracy and justice frequently began. Take the encampments of “los indignados” in Spain. Who are they indignant at? The greedy rich, obviously. But also their gutless, lying, “left wing” politicians. Their manifestos basically demand that those parties do what they said they would: protect workers and academic freedom, extend social benefits, use non-nuclear energy, create proportional representation, etc.

What are their odds of success? Well, Spain does have a great anarchist (i.e., leaderless) tradition with many achievements. But eventually, at this stage of human evolution, you probably have to turn back to institutions of government, flawed as they are (like other flawed but seemingly unavoidable institutions: medicine, teaching, journalism . . .) Still, as a way to go, it beats those alternatives, apathy and despair.


Rule by Rentiers, Paul Krugman, June 9 2011.

The latest economic data have dashed any hope of a quick end to America’s job drought, which has already gone on so long that the average unemployed American has been out of work for almost 40 weeks. Yet there is no political will to do anything about the situation. Far from being ready to spend more on job creation, both parties agree that it’s time to slash spending — destroying jobs in the process — with the only difference being one of degree.

Nor is the Federal Reserve riding to the rescue. On Tuesday, Ben Bernanke, the Fed chairman, acknowledged the grimness of the economic picture but indicated that he will do nothing about it.

And debt relief for homeowners — which could have done a lot to promote overall economic recovery — has simply dropped off the agenda. The existing program for mortgage relief has been a bust, spending only a tiny fraction of the funds allocated, but there seems to be no interest in revamping and restarting the effort.

The situation is similar in Europe, but arguably even worse. In particular, the European Central Bank’s hard-money, anti-debt-relief rhetoric makes Mr. Bernanke sound like William Jennings Bryan.

What lies behind this trans-Atlantic policy paralysis? I’m increasingly convinced that it’s a response to interest-group pressure. Consciously or not, policy makers are catering almost exclusively to the interests of rentiers — those who derive lots of income from assets, who lent large sums of money in the past, often unwisely, but are now being protected from loss at everyone else’s expense.

Of course, that’s not the way what I call the Pain Caucus makes its case. Instead, the argument against helping the unemployed is framed in terms of economic risks: Do anything to create jobs and interest rates will soar, runaway inflation will break out, and so on. But these risks keep not materializing. Interest rates remain near historic lows, while inflation outside the price of oil — which is determined by world markets and events, not U.S. policy — remains low.

And against these hypothetical risks one must set the reality of an economy that remains deeply depressed, at great cost both to today’s workers and to our nation’s future. After all, how can we expect to prosper two decades from now when millions of young graduates are, in effect, being denied the chance to get started on their careers?

Ask for a coherent theory behind the abandonment of the unemployed and you won’t get an answer. Instead, members of the Pain Caucus seem to be making it up as they go along, inventing ever-changing rationales for their never-changing policy prescriptions.

While the ostensible reasons for inflicting pain keep changing, however, the policy prescriptions of the Pain Caucus all have one thing in common: They protect the interests of creditors, no matter the cost. Deficit spending could put the unemployed to work — but it might hurt the interests of existing bondholders. More aggressive action by the Fed could help boost us out of this slump — in fact, even Republican economists have argued that a bit of inflation might be exactly what the doctor ordered — but deflation, not inflation, serves the interests of creditors. And, of course, there’s fierce opposition to anything smacking of debt relief.

Who are these creditors I’m talking about? Not hard-working, thrifty small business owners and workers, although it serves the interests of the big players to pretend that it’s all about protecting little guys who play by the rules. The reality is that both small businesses and workers are hurt far more by the weak economy than they would be by, say, modest inflation that helps promote recovery.

No, the only real beneficiaries of Pain Caucus policies (aside from the Chinese government) are the rentiers: bankers and wealthy individuals with lots of bonds in their portfolios.

And that explains why creditor interests bulk so large in policy; not only is this the class that makes big campaign contributions, it’s the class that has personal access to policy makers — many of whom go to work for these people when they exit government through the revolving door. The process of influence doesn’t have to involve raw corruption (although that happens, too). All it requires is the tendency to assume that what’s good for the people you hang out with, the people who seem so impressive in meetings — hey, they’re rich, they’re smart, and they have great tailors — must be good for the economy as a whole.

But the reality is just the opposite: creditor-friendly policies are crippling the economy. This is a negative-sum game, in which the attempt to protect the rentiers from any losses is inflicting much larger losses on everyone else. And the only way to get a real recovery is to stop playing that game.


Climate Change Denial: Heads in the Sand Foreword, Naomi Oreskes, January 2011.

Foreword

People who refuse to accept the scientific evidence of anthropogenic climate change like to call themselves skeptics. But as Haydn Washington and John Cook note in this straightforward and much-needed book, these men (and they are nearly all men) are not skeptics. A skeptic is a person who challenges his opponents to provide evidence for their beliefs. A skeptic rejects articles of faith and positions that defy refutation in the face of facts. In this sense, all scientists are skeptics. They insist that any claim be supported by evidence, and they insist on a substantial debate about the quantity and quality of that evidence before accepting it. The more radical the claim, the higher the bar to acceptance.
         When Svante Arrhenius first suggested that increased atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide from burning fossil fuels could lead to global climate change, it was a radical claim. Who in the late 19th century believed that human activities could match the scale of natural forces? In any case there was no way to test the idea. Arrhenius was making a prediction about something that could happen in the future, not a claim about something that was already happening.1
         The first scientist to claim that climate change was under way was British engineer Guy Stuart Callendar [sic]. In the early 1930s Callendar compiled available global data (mostly in Europe), which suggested that both atmospheric carbon dioxide and average global temperatures were starting to rise. Other scientists addressed the issue theoretically. American physicist E. O. Hulburt, a physicist at the US Naval Research Laboratory, calculated the effect of doubling CO2 on global climate based on physical principles, and concluded that doubling CO2 would increase average global temperature by 4°C, while tripling would increase it by 7°C. This, he noted, this was sufficient to change Earth's climate dramatically.2
         A lot has happened since the 1930s, and climate change is no longer a radical claim. In fact, it's not a 'claim' at all. It's an established scientific fact. In over 10,000 peer-reviewed scientific papers, as well as thousands of pages of summary produced by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), scientists have demonstrated that atmospheric CO2 has increased, and global temperature has increased too.3 As a result, spring is coming earlier than it used to. Rivers and lakes are warming. Glaciers are shrinking, while glacial lakes are expanding. Permafrost is becoming unstable. Plants and animals are shifting their ranges upwards in terms of both latitude and elevation.4 And extreme weather events - droughts, floods, hurricanes - are becoming a little bit more common, and a little bit more extreme.
         While scientists knew for a long time that such changes could happen, it was only in the 1980s that they began to think that they surely would happen. In 1979, the US National Academy of Sciences wrote, 'If carbon dioxide continues to increase, the study group finds no reason to doubt that climate changes will result and no reason to believe that these changes will be negligible.'5
         And that's when the denial began to set in ...
         As Erik Conway and I wrote in our recent book, Merchants of Doubt: How a Handful of Scientists Obscured the Truth on Issues from Tobacco to Global Warming, almost as soon as the proverbial ink was dry on the National Academy report, some people began to challenge its conclusions. They did so for reasons that had very little to do with the science, and everything to do with politics and ideology.
         In 1983, the Academy undertook a larger, more comprehensive report, chaired by conservative scientist William Nierenberg, who argued that the results of climate change would be negligible, because people were highly adaptable, and technological innovation, flourishing under free market conditions, would enable us to address any adverse impacts that arose. It was not an empirical argument - it was not based on evidence drawn from history, or sociology, or anthropology (indeed, there were no social scientists other than economists on the committee). It was an ideological argument, rooted in Nierenberg's anti-communism and commitment to free market principles.
         Nierenberg was a Cold War scientist who had began his career working on the Manhattan Project - the crash programme to build an atomic bomb during World War II - and in the years that followed, he built a career close to the corridors of power. By the 1980s, he had ties to the administration of President Ronald Reagan, who favoured free market solutions to social problems. We know now, from historical research, that while Nierenberg was chairing the climate change committee, he was also appointed by the Reagan administration to review the scientific evidence of acid rain, and he altered the Executive Summary of that committee's report - under the guidance of White House science adviser George Keyworth - to make the problem of acid rain seem less urgent than the committee believed.
         The very next year - 1984 - Nierenberg joined forces with two other politically conservative physicists - Robert Jastrow and Frederick Seitz - to create the George C. Marshall Institute, a think tank that would defend Reagan administration policies with respect to strategic defence and nuclear weaponry. Seitz was a former President of the Rockefeller University, with long-standing ties to the tobacco industry; Jastrow was an astrophysicist involved in the US space programme. By the end of the 1980s, Seitz, Jastrow and Nierenberg were challenging the evidence of global warming and the ozone hole. Their work laid the ground for a host of others - individuals, think tanks, private institutes and corporations - to launch a full-scale attack on climate science. Climate change denial began in the 1980s, and it continues to this day.
         In the early 2000s, when I first begin to lecture about the history of climate science, I would be asked the same skeptical questions over and over again. 'What about the sun?' 'Isn't it true that warming has stopped?' 'Why should I believe a computer?' 'The climate has always been changing, so why should I worry?' And, less belligerently, 'Where can I go to get good clear answers to my questions?' I knew the answers to the first four questions, but there wasn't a good answer to the last one, and it was telling that the same questions came up over and over again. Clearly, scientists had not succeeded in communicating to the general public what they had long known, whereas skeptical claims had percolated into public consciousness.
         As a university professor who competes daily with the internet for my students' attention, I understood the power of the web, and it frustrated me that scientists hadn't done more to use it. So I was happy indeed when I discovered John Cook's wonderful website, www.skepticalscience.com, which calmly and systematically debunks the most common 'denialist' arguments. When I discovered that Cook even had an iPhone app, I knew these were people I wanted to know.
         For too long, scientists have debated climate science in the halls of science, thinking it was someone else's job to communicate the science to the rest of us. Meanwhile, vocal groups with an ideological or economic interest in challenging the scientific evidence did exactly that, in well-organized, well-funded and persistent campaigns. Many of the same groups and individuals who now challenge the scientific evidence of anthropogenic climate change previously challenged the evidence of tobacco smoking, acid rain and the ozone hole. Some have even tried to reopen the debate over DDT, claiming that DDT was never dangerous, and that millions of people have died unnecessarily from malaria because of the US decision to ban DDT in the United States.
         Most of these claims are just false. The attempt to rehabilitate DDT, for example, is based on claims that are demonstrably erroneous. DDT does cause cancer; it was never the miracle chemical that its supporters claimed (and continue to claim); and the World Health Organization moved away from it in malaria prevention not because of environmental hysteria but because mosquitoes were developing resistance.6
         Other 'denialist' claims have been shown to be incorrect as well - or at least to be misleading half-truths. Washington and Cook note that there are common patterns in the denial of scientific evidence: the most common is to claim that observed changes are natural variability. And if they are natural, then there is no cause for concern and no reason for change from 'business as usual'.
         This can be hard to refute, because the natural world is highly variable. It is the job of scientists to sort out the diverse causes of natural change, to determine their magnitude and rate, and to differentiate them from human effects. What we know, after half a century of scientific work, is that the human footprint on the planet is now so large that human drivers of change are in many cases overwhelming natural drivers. There is natural climate variability - including changes caused by natural fluctuations in solar irradiance and atmospheric CO2 - but natural variability is being overridden by planetary warming dominated by human activity: the production of greenhouse gases and the destruction of forests, mangrove swamps, and other natural carbon sinks. Similarly, there is natural variability in stratospheric ozone, but the depletions observed in the 1980s were caused primarily by the synthetic chemicals known as chlorofluorocarbons. There is natural acidic rain, but it was vastly increased in the 20th century by pollution from coal-fired electrical utilities, smelters and automobiles.
         How do denialists make such half-truths seem credible? By relying on scientists to make them. In the 1950s, tobacco industry executives realized that if they attacked the scientific evidence of the harms of their product, the conflict of interest would be obvious. But if scientists raised questions about the science, that would be a whole different matter. So they set out to find scientists who were willing to do just that.
         We see the same pattern in the challenges to climate science. Washington and Cook directly address the recent claims of Ian Plimer, who has received enormous attention in Australia (where both authors of this book live) for his view that the observed increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide is caused by volcanoes, and that it doesn't matter anyway since 'you can double carbon dioxide and it has no effect'.7
         These are very strange claims. Irish experimentalist John Tyndall first demonstrated in the 1850s that carbon dioxide was a powerful greenhouse gas, and that its presence in the atmosphere, even at extremely low concentrations, was crucial for Earth's benevolent climate. Since then numerous other studies have confirmed the high sensitivity of the planetary climate to atmospheric CO2. We've increased atmospheric CO2 by about one-third, and we've seen an increase in average global temperature already of just under 1°C. Climate sensitivity isn't just a theory, it's an observation.
         As for the source of the recent increase in CO2, that was worked out in 2003 - and it's not volcanoes.8 Many of us know that there are two forms of carbon: ordinary C-12, and radioactive C-14, which is used to date archeological relics and other things. But there is a third kind of carbon, C-13, the concentration of which varies in natural reservoirs. Plants and materials derived from them, notably coal, have much lower concentrations of C-13 than other materials, including the CO2 emitted from volcanoes. Isotope geochemists Prosenjit Ghosh and Willi A. Brand measured the C-13 content of atmospheric CO2 and showed that as total CO2 rose, the C-13 content fell. This result is just what you'd expect if that CO2 came from fossil fuels.
         Plimer speculates that invisible, undetected, underwater volcanoes are responsible for the increased atmospheric CO2. Besides the obvious point that he is asking us to believe in something that no one has seen, felt or observed in any form, he asks us to disbelieve what scientists have seen and measured. It's a bit like asking us to believe in Santa Claus after we have seen our parents putting the presents under the tree.
         Plimer is a geologist, not a climate scientist, and as a former exploration geologist myself - who cut my teeth in the Australian mining industry -1 would never assume that a mining geologist is not a fine human being. But when it comes to judging a person's claims, it is reasonable to ask: Is this person actually an expert? And if his claims go against the conclusions of genuine experts, then why is he insisting on them? Indeed, why is he even involved in the debate at all? And why are we listening?
         The answer to the questions above might simply be that Plimer's strong links to the mining industry may be influencing his views on the matter. While many business leaders accept the scientific evidence of anthropogenic climate change and see business opportunities in addressing it, those in the traditional business of extracting resources from the ground have been having a harder time. People fear change because they fear loss, and in doing something about climate change, there will be winners and losers. Hard rock mining will not necessarily lose - particularly mining for uranium for nuclear power, or materials necessary for solar cells or wind turbines - but the fossil fuel industry will lose, unless it moves briskly into new areas. Here we see the tobacco problem all over again. The tobacco industry was hugely profitable and its primary product was deadly. That was a serious difficulty. The industry did not respond well to it. The fossil fuel industry is repeating the pattern.
         But if this is an old pattern, why are we falling for it?

Why Do Denialist Claims Persist?

Given that virtually every denialist claim of the past 20 years has been shown to have been misleading, or just plain false, why do these claims persist? Why do so many of us listen to them?
         Most scientists think the problem is scientific illiteracy, so the solution is to get more information to more people. Climate modeller James Hansen, one of the first scientists to speak out publicly on the threat of unmitigated climate change (and one of the most passionate voices now calling for immediate action), has concluded that if the public had a better understanding of the climate crisis they would 'do what needed to be done'.9
         Sadly, the evidence is against this conclusion. Scientists have been communicating what they know for a long time. The raison d'être of the IPCC - much maligned by climate deniers - was to communicate relevant science to governments and other interested parties. This information is readily available. But availability of information does not guarantee that people will accept it.10 In both the United States and Australia, many highly educated people have rejected the conclusions of climate science, including chairmen of the boards of leading corporations, members of US Congress, and even occupants of the American White House.
         There are many reasons why people resist bad news, but it is clear that a major driver here is fear. Fear that our current way of life is unsustainable. Fear that addressing the issue will limit economic growth. Fear that if we accept government interventions in the market place - through a cap-and-trade system to control greenhouse gas emissions, a carbon tax, or some more severe approach - it will lead to a loss of personal freedom.
         Or maybe just plain old fear of change. Psychologists have shown that most of us anticipate change as loss. Climate change is easy to interpret as loss: loss of prosperity, loss of freedom, loss of the good life as we have known it.

So What Can We Do?

Washington and Cook conclude by referring to the concept of 'implicatory denial'. Most of us are aware that scientists say climate change is under way, but even if we accept it as true we act as if it had no implications. We deny what it means, and continue business as usual. As I write these words, a large portion of Queensland is flooded, in what the global reinsurance company Munich Re estimates may be the most costly natural disaster in Australian history. An area larger than Germany and France combined has been inundated; over 200,000 people have been affected; 60,000 homes are without electricity; and three-quarters of the state has been declared a disaster area. Among other things, witnesses described an 'inland tsunami' - a wall of water 21 feet high and half a mile across - that swept over the Lockyer Valley. While the death toll is not yet known, at least 20 are known dead, many others missing.11
         Some commentators were willing to describe the flooding as 'biblical', yet almost none were willing to make the connection to climate change.12 Of course, as scientists have repeatedly emphasized, 'climate' is by definition a matter of patterns, and one event does not a pattern make. But the Queensland floods are part of a pattern - a pattern that in 2010-2011 included devastating floods in China and Pakistan, unprecedented heatwaves and fires in Russia, and catastrophic mudslides in Brazil. Moreover, this pattern is consistent with what scientists have long predicted: that climate change would lead to an increase in extreme weather events. The reason is simple: conservation of energy. If you trap more energy in the atmosphere, it has to go somewhere, and one of the places it goes into is weather.
         Australian Premier of Queensland Anna Bligh has said that the devastation in Queensland 'may be breaking our hearts, but it will not break our will'.13 Yet the will that is needed - which has been needed for the past two decades - is not the will to keep calm and carry on in the face of tragedy. It is the will to change the way we live in order to avoid an even greater tragedy; a tragedy that will affect not just Queensland, or even all Australia, but the whole world, including the plants and animals with whom we share this rock upon which we live. For, as Washington and Cook rightly note, climate change is about the way we live. It is about how we use energy without regard for the long-term consequences, and how we inflict environmental damage without concern for other people and species. It is about a way of life that does not reckon the true cost of living, an economics that does not take into account environmental damage and loss.
         Climate change is the ultimate accounting: it is the bill for a century of unprecedented prosperity, generated by the energy stored in fossil fuels. By and large, this prosperity has been a good thing. More people live longer and healthier lives than before the industrial revolution. The problem, however, is that those people did not pay the full cost of that prosperity. And the remainder of the bill has now come due.
         Anna Bligh is right. What we need now is will: the will to face the facts, the will to accept their implications and the will to do something about it. Let us hope this fine book helps us to move in that direction.

Naomi Oreskes
Professor of History and Science Studies
University of California (San Diego)
January 2011


Notes

1    Spencer Weart (2004) The Discovery of Global Warming, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA; James Roger Fleming (1998) Historical Perspectives on Climate Change, Oxford University Press, New York, NY.


2    James Roget Fleming (2009) The Callendar Effect: The Life and Work of Guy Stewart Callendar (1898-1964), The Scientist Who Established the Carbon Dioxide Theory of Climate Change, The American Meteorological Society, Boston, MA; E. O. Hulburt (1931) 'The temperature of the lower atmosphere of the Earth', Physical Review, vol 38, 15 November, ppl876-1890.


3    Naomi Oreskes (2004) 'The scientific consensus on climate change', Science, vol 306, p1686; see also Peter T. Doran and Maggie Kendall Zimmerman (2009) 'Examining the scientific consensus on climate change', EOS, Transactions, American Geophysical Union, vol 90, no 3, p22, doi:10.1029/2009EO030002.


4    IPCC (2007) 'Summary for policymakers', in Climate Change 2007: Impacts, Adaptation and Vulnerability. Contribution of Working Group II to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, M. L. Parry, O. F. Canziani, J. P. Palutikof, P. J. van der Linden and C.E. Hanson (eds), Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, pp7-22.


5    Verner E. Suomi, in Jule Charney et al (1979) Carbon Dioxide and Climate: A Scientific Assessment, Report of an Ad-Hoc Study Group on Carbon Dioxide and Climate, Woods Hole, Massachusetts, 23-27 July, to the Climate Research Board, National Research Council, National Academies Press, Washington, DC, p2.


6    Naomi Oreskes and Erik M. Conway (2010) Merchants of Doubt: How a Handful of Scientists Obscured the Truth on Issues from Tobacco Smoke to Global Warming, Bloomsbury Press, New York, NY.


7    Quote: 'you can double [carbon dioxide] and quadruple it and it has no effect ... To demonize it shows that you don't understand schoolchild science' (Ian Plimer, interviewed on ABN Newswire, June 2009, cited at www.sourcewatch.org/index.php?title=Ian_Plimer).


8    Prosenjit Ghosh and Willi A. Brand (2003) 'Stable isotope ratio mass spectrometry in global climate change research', International Journal of Mass Spectrometry, vol 228, no 1, pp1-33.


9    James Hansen (2010) Storms of My Grandchildren, Bloomsbury Press, New York, NY, p238.


10   On public opinion about climate change, see Anthony Leiserowitz et al (2010) Knowledge of Climate Change Across Global Warming's Six Americas, Yale Project on Climate Change Communication, http://environment.yale.edu/climate/files/Knowledge%20Across%20Six%20Americas.pdf.


11   See www.smh.com.au/business/insured-losses-from-deluge-could-reach-6bn-worldwide-20110114-19re8.html; www.ft.com/cms/s/0/caeec346-lffe-lleO-a6fb-00144feab49a.html#axzzlB3enDB27; www.ecoworld.com/waters/inland-tsunami-kills-10-in-queensland-australia.html.


12   See http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2011/01/pictures/l 10106-australia-flood-drought-water-storms.


13   See www.heraldsun.com.au/news/special-reports/two-killed-in-raging-flash-flood-in-queensland/story-fn7kabp3-1225985264224.




Down

Sunday, 3 April 2011

The plain style.

or quid pro quo & sine qua non.
Up, Down, Appendices, Postscript.

Not much good to say - so I might as well put it up-front and you can skip the rest if you like.

Lester Brown is still at it (God bless 'im). From his Earth Policy Institute comes a PBS film, Journey to Planet Earth, Plan B: Mobilizing to Save Civilization. You can watch streaming video on the PBS site, but just for the month of April for some reason (?). Or you can download it at IsoHunt.

Not a great film per se. In one of those rare boomer turnabouts - it is the content, the substance, that carries it, not the style. And while Elizabeth May couldn't end a speech on a hopeful note to save her life - our Lester Brown certainly well can.

Let your conscience be your guide - they need donations.

Maria Aragon & Lady GagaMaria Aragon & Stephen HarperAll questions answered by symmetry:

IF A/B = A/C THEN B=C.

Et voilà!

Stephen Harper IS Lady Gaga!

(or, say, Lord Gaga?) Is that it?

Tony AuthScott HilburnI am thinking of Robertson Davies' character, Dunstan Ramsey, who instructs his fictional students to write in "the plain style."

Of course it means different things to different people. How about, "say what you mean and mean what you say."?

Harper does a Christo ...Anthony JenkinsFor those of you who dont know what 'doing a Christo' means (I didn't) you can check it out here.

The daemonic parody becomes less and less equivocal, more and more explicit, until (I guess) everyone just runs right amok, off the rails simultaneously and all-at-once (independently of course). Thinking of the derailment this week in Cobourg - the thing about railcar wheels is that they really only work when they are on the tracks eh? (And humans really only work when they are in touch.)

Brian GableTwo bits of William Blake:
This Lifes dim Windows of the Soul
Distorts the Heavens from Pole to Pole
And leads you to Believe a Lie
When you see with not thro the Eye
So many proper nouns ... such confusing punctuation ... another version:
This life's five windows of the soul
Distorts the Heavens from pole to pole,
And leads you to believe a lie
When you see with, not thro' the eye.
and
For double the vision my eyes do see,
And a double vision is always with me:
With my inward eye 'tis an old man grey;
With my outward a thistle across my way.
Cobourg DerailmentCobourg DerailmentThere is no quick & searchable on-line resource for Blake as there is for Shakespeare and the KJV (that I can find). There used to be a good one for Bob Dylan but it is gone now, done in by Sony's corporate greed, AND you have to pay big-time for the OED ... AND until the academic maggots over at the University of Toronto get their copyright thumbs out you can't find (much of) Northrop Frye on-line ... AND Google doesn't really work very well at all at all AT ALL! ... AI AI AI!!!

Hannah Arendt's Men In Dark Times is good, but when things really get me down I re-read Northrop Frye's The Double Vision (which sets out from the second bit of Blake quoted above).

The Everlasting Gospel ... is it Blake or is it Rosetti? This enigmatic couplet seems to follow on after 'with not thro the eye':
That was born in a night to perish in a night
When the Soul slept in the beams of Light.
Leaving me completely mystified (but not yet quite confounded).

Here's the nut: One is simply not permitted to approach either public or private ground with any niggling notion of need these days. No dependence allowed! We are deep into the box canyon of atomist correctitude. Understand and accept or be doubly damned. But the fact is that human societies don't work this way - that's to say don't function; that's to say STOP, dead in their tracks!

Where is the quid pro quo?!

Maybe it is unsentimental and even uncomfortable to transactionalize everything in society. It is worse to then make the sine qua non transaction more-and-more impossible - permanently expunged from the social imaginary and illegal. And in bad taste too.

My thinking (such as it is) brings me up with a thump, again and again and again, at The Golden Rule & The Good Samaritan, and in the last few years at Ivan Illich's notions around these two stalwart beacons of transcendence (which may very well be opposed). I have no idea how to effectively forgive, cleanse, and possibly even expiate without plain straight talk, which is (you know) an intimate, messy and mutual affair. A-and without cleansing forgiveness and expiation the garbage tends to pile up at the curb.

I sensed a miraculous clue in Chimamanda Adichie's Purple Hibiscus. A glimpse of 'open space' as my friend said of Newfoundland way back when (see here). But I have read it three times already, and I know there is something very important in there somewhere but I can't seem to ... get it (!) (yet). Feeling about in the dark like Chris Alexander going after The Quality Without A Name.

Oh my. :-)(And given my evident obsession with brown-skinned women the whole landscape here simply quakes with murk.)

What follows is no more than a 'summary to date'. (Who is that clue-seeker in Pynchon? ... Oh yeah, Stencil, Herbert Stencil. Was Herbet the father or the son? Can't remember.)

2003 Purple Hibiscus (translated as A Cor do Hibisco but in Portugal not Brazil).


2006 Half of a Yellow Sun.


2009 The Thing Around Your Neck: Cell One; Imitation; A Private Experience; Ghosts; On Monday of Last Week; Jumping Monkey Hill; The Thing Around Your Neck; The American Embassy; The Shivering; The Arrangers of Marriage (New Husband); Tomorrow Is Too Far; & The Headstrong Historian.



The 'unofficial' website has an extensive bibliography (though it does not include 'The Shivering' yet). A quick look at the list of 'Primary Sources' there was ... daunting. She writes. A lot.

Two longish excerpts: The last story in The Thing Around Your Neck, The Headstrong Historian (because Nwamgba is admirable by any standard I know of); and the first chapter of Half of a Yellow Sun (because this portrait of Ugwu, of a man written by a woman, gives him dignity).

The moment (I am told) at which your retina begins to detach, you see a flash at the edge of your vision. This happened to me again and again as I read Purple Hibiscus.

Chimamanda AdichieChimamanda AdichieTwo videos, both from 2009: a 20 minute lecture at TED (also here) on 'The danger of a single story' resonating a little with Northrop Frye maybe; and in an interview discussing The Thing Around Your Neck here.

Is that a Michael Jackson kiss-curl dangling there? Could such a woman possibly be a fan of Michael Jackson?

How sad is that? :-)Just to demonstrate how lame I am, how completely elementary symmetries prevail - I have ordered a few Toni Morrison stories from the library for a brief 'compare & contrast' exercise later on sometime. Maybe I will find a picture of her sporting a kiss-curl too?

The two novels of Tsitsi Dangarembga: Nervous conditions, and The book of not; also have to figgure into the exercise somehow.

For now at least, (as the Eskimo said to the Scotsman) "You can't get there from here."

Elizabeth MayElizabeth MayI tried to use this $#@!-ing computer to remind me to turn off the lights for Earth Hour and ended up turning them off on Friday instead of Saturday. Doh!? But it was apparently a fiasco all round - harmonic convergence I guess.

350.org is at it again. A b-b-big idea to be revealed during a b-b-big conference call with b-b-big Bill McKibben later on today sometime. B-b-but the problem for these people is not having big ideas - they've got them - the problem is not doing anything with some of the big ideas they've got. (Eaarth you may remember ends with a vision of renewed community.)

Malcolm MayesAnthony JenkinsA-and Elizabeth May will not be in the debates, ho hum.

(The rest of these links are not in the Appendix this week - fuck it!)

Meanwhile, the press is astounded that two young Somali women, teenagers, from the west end of Toronto ran away to join Al Shabaab. They were 'lured by terrorists' of course.

Officer BubblesIn the UK it is left to the Black Bloc to make a half-assed-ly coherent case. In North America the Koch brothers are in control.

Lots of cops (including our very own 'Officer Bubbles' aka Adam Josephs) & bus drivers are making over the ton (Ralph Kramden eat your heart out!), and lots of other bureaucrats too, 71,000 of 'em altogether they say ... the 'sunshine list' they call it.

Hello sunshine.Hello sunshine. :-)Back in the day 'sunshine' meant something else altogether.

But no surprises ... unless ... why it is that three of these hundred-grand-a-year stories all show up in The Star on the same day? And at the outset of an election run? And the kindly Police Officers are called 'cops' and the maggoty lard-arses are called 'public servants' ... the implications are interesting ...

Hell, if you're making 100 grand+ a year who cares what they call you? I know it's not really that much ... but it's enough.

Scott HilburnSo then ... is forever a cop and a cheerio walking hand-in-hand into the sunrise (sunset?) with a red heart pasted up in the sky?

"At dawn my lover comes to me and tells me of her dreams, with no attempt to shovel the glimpse into the ditch of what each one means. At times I think there are no words but these to tell what’s true."

Oh ... I did sort of figgure out one thing: the trailing 'o' in Fela and here-and-there you come across it; works like 'eh?' in k-k-Canada and 'viu?' in Brasil ... though the trailing 'oh' in Igbo seems to be somewhat more definite (as explained in Half of a Yellow Sun), more like a simple affirmation, 'yes.' not 'yes?'.How about that-o. :-)

This seems like a suitable recessional, Leonard Cohen on his 2008-2009 refill-the-coffers tour: in Belfast, Lisbon, and Toronto.
When you've fallen on the highway
and you're lying in the rain,
and they ask you how you're doing
of course you'll say you can't complain ...
may be a SumacA-and just a small slice of Zhu Zhe-qin aka Dadawa, Tear Lake, proof to warn that The Chieftans are not an unqualified-ly positive influence either. It was the very same English prof who showed me 'open space' way back when who recommended listening to Dadawa.

All of this is quite silly isn't it? Some people must learn something in a life? Don't they? I mostly don't get it. That much is obvious. It might have easily been different. Who knows? Maybe the best is yet to come? (Is that it?)Is that it? :-)

Just waiting see if this seedling turns out to be a Sumac.

Be well.

Postscript:

In the NYT we have, Cleanup Questions as Radiation Spreads:
On Wednesday, the International Atomic Energy Agency said a soil sample from Iitate, a village of 7,000 people about 25 miles northwest of the plant, showed very high concentrations of cesium 137 — an isotope that produces harmful gamma rays, accumulates in the food chain and persists in the environment for hundreds of years.

The cesium levels were about double the minimums found in the area declared uninhabitable around the Chernobyl nuclear plant in Ukraine, raising the question whether the evacuation zones around Fukushima should be extended beyond the current 18 miles. On Thursday, the Japanese government said it had no plans to expand the zone.
And also in the NYT is this, Radioactive Iodine Detected in Ocean, Despite Gains at Japanese Plant:
Mr. Edano also noted that radiation above the acceptable limit had been found in beef from Fukushima prefecture, and he said the government was repeating the tests to confirm them. In any case, he said, “the radiation is not of a level sufficient to be harmful to human health if someone eats it once or twice.”

Contamination has already been found in vegetables and raw milk near the plant.

A Health Ministry spokesman, Taku Ohara, said the cow had been slaughtered on March 15 more than 40 miles from the plant, The Associated Press reported. The beef was found to have a total cesium level of 510 becquerels per kilogram; the limit is 500.
Robert Peter GaleRobert Peter Gale'No problem' says Robert Peter Gale in the Guardian, Radiation rises in seawater near Fukushima plant:
Experts say the radiation will be diluted by the sea, lessening the contamination of fish and other marine life.

Robert Peter Gale, a US medical researcher who was brought in by Soviet authorities after the Chernobyl disaster, said recent higher readings of radioactive iodine-131 and caesium-137 should be of greater concern than reports earlier this week of tiny quantities of plutonium found in soil samples.

But he added: "It's obviously alarming when you talk about radiation, but if you have radiation in non-gas form I would say dump it in the ocean."

Gale, who has been advising the Japanese government, said: "To some extent that's why some nuclear power plants are built along the coast, to be in an area where the wind is blowing out to sea, and because the safest way to deposit radiation is in the ocean.

"The dilutional factor could not be better – there's no better place. If you deposit it on earth or in places where people live there is no dilutional effect. From a safety point of view the ocean is the safest place."

(more on Robert Gale here)
Say what!? Dump it in the fucking ocean!? ... But of course! It's sooo obvious eh? There's no biology going on in the ocean so ...

That's the second time the intrepid Guardian nitwit Justin McCurry (Que féladaputa!) has passed on such nonsense, Japanese nuclear firm admits error on radiation reading:
Concern over food safety spread to fishing over the weekend when officials said seawater samples taken 20 miles off the coast of Fukushima contained 1,850 times the normal level of radioactivity.

Nisa said the tainted seawater posed no risk: "Ocean currents will disperse radiation particles and so it will be very diluted by the time it is consumed by fish and seaweed, and even more by the time they are consumed by humans. There is no need to worry about health risks."

Doh¡¿  WTF-ing F¡¿¡


Appendices:

1. The Headstrong Historian.
2. Half of a Yellow Sun, Chapter 1.


THE HEADSTRONG HISTORIAN

Many years after her husband died, Nwamgba still closed her eyes from time to time to relive his nightly visits to her hut and the mornings after, when she would walk to the stream humming a song, thinking of the smoky scent of him, the firmness of his weight, those secrets she shared with herself, and feeling as if she were surrounded by light. Other memories of Obierika remained clear—his stubby fingers curled around his flute when he played in the evenings, his delight when she set down his bowls of food, his sweaty back when he returned with baskets filled with fresh clay for her pottery. From the moment she first saw him at a wrestling match, both of them staring and staring at each other, both of them too young, her waist not yet wearing the menstruation cloth, she had believed with a quiet stubbornness that her chi and his chi had destined their marriage, and so when he came to her father a few years later bringing pots of palm wine and accompanied by his relatives, she told her mother that this was the man she would marry. Her mother was aghast. Did Nwambga not know that Obierika was an only child, that his late father had been an only child whose wives had lost pregnancies and buried babies? Perhaps somebody in their family had committed the taboo of selling a girl into slavery and the earth god Ani was visiting misfortune on them. Nwamgba ignored her mother. She went into her father's obi and told him she would run away from any other man's house if she was not allowed to marry Obierika. Her father found her exhausting, this sharp-tongued, headstrong daughter who had once wrestled her brother to the ground. (After which her father had warned everybody not to let the news leave the compound that the girl had thrown a boy.) He, too, was concerned about the infertility in Obierika's family, but it was not a bad family: Obierika's late father had taken the ozo title; Obierika was already giving out his seed yams to sharecroppers. Nwamgba would not do badly if she married him. Besides, it was better that he let her go with the man she chose, to save himself years of trouble when she would keep returning home after confrontations with in-laws. And so he gave his blessing and she smiled and called him by his praise name.

To pay her bride price, Obierika came with two maternal cousins, Okafo and Okoye, who were like brothers to him. Nwamgba loathed them at first sight. She saw a grasping envy in their eyes that afternoon as they drank palm wine in her father's obi, and in the following years, years in which Obierika took titles and widened his compound and sold his yams to strangers from afar, she saw their envy blacken. But she tolerated them, because they mattered to Obierika, because he pretended not to notice that they didn't work but came to him for yams and chickens, because he wanted to imagine that he had brothers. It was they who urged him, after her third miscarriage, to marry another wife. Obierika told them he would give it some thought but when he and Nwamgba were alone in her hut at night, he told her that he was sure they would have a home full of children, and that he would not marry another wife until they were old, so that they would have somebody to care for them. She thought this strange of him, a prosperous man with only one wife, and she worried more than he did about their childlessness, about the songs that people sang, melodious mean-spirited words: She has sold her womb. She has eaten his penis. He plays his flute and hands over his wealth to her.
     Once, at a moonlight gathering, the square full of women telling stories and learning new dances, a group of girls saw Nwamgba and began to sing, their aggressive breasts pointing at her. She stopped and asked whether they would mind singing a little louder so that she could hear the words and then show them who was the greater of two tortoises. They stopped singing. She enjoyed their fear, the way they backed away from; her, but it was then that she decided to find a wife for Obierika herself.

Nwamgba liked going to the Oyi stream, untying her wrapper from her waist and walking down the slope to the silvery rush of water that burst out from a rock. The waters of Oyi were fresher than those of the other stream, Ogalanya, or perhaps it was simply that she felt comforted by the shrine of the Oyi goddess, tucked away in a corner; as a child she had learned that Oyi was the protector of women, the reason women were not to be sold into slavery. Her closest friend, Ayaju, was already at the stream, and as Nwamgba helped her raise her pot to her head, she asked Ayaju who might be a good second wife for Obierika.
     She and Ayaju had grown up together and married men from the same clan. The difference between them, though, was that Ayaju was of slave descent; her father had been brought as a slave after a war. Ayaju did not care for her husband, Okenwa, who she said resembled and smelled like a rat, but her marriage prospects had been limited; no man from a freeborn family would have come for her hand. Ayaju's long-limbed, quick-moving body spoke of her many trading journeys; she had traveled even beyond Onicha. It was she who had first brought tales of the strange customs of the Igala and Edo traders, she who first told of the white-skinned men who arrived in Onicha with mirrors and fabrics and the biggest guns the people of those parts had ever seen. This cosmopolitanism earned her respect, and she was the only person of slave descent who talked loudly at the Women's Council, the only person who had answers for everything.
     And so she promptly suggested, for Obierika's second wife, the young girl from the Okonkwo family; the girl had beautiful wide hips and was respectful, nothing like the young girls of today with their heads full of nonsense. As they walked home from the stream, Ayaju said that perhaps Nwamgba should do what other women in her situation did—take a lover and get pregnant in order to continue Obierika's lineage. Nwamgba's retort was sharp, because she did not like Ayaju's tone, which suggested that Obierika was impotent, and as if in response to her thoughts she felt a furious stab in her back and knew that she was pregnant again, but she said nothing, because she knew, too, that she would lose the baby again.
     Her miscarriage happened a few weeks later, lumpy blood running down her legs. Obierika comforted her and suggested they go to the famous oracle, Kisa, as soon as she was well enough for the half day's journey. After the dibia had consulted the oracle, Nwamgba cringed at the thought of sacrificing a whole cow; Obierika certainly had greedy ancestors. But they did the ritual cleansings and the sacrifices, and when she suggested he go and see the Okonkwo family about their daughter, he delayed and delayed until another sharp pain spliced her back; and months later, she was lying on a pile of freshly washed banana leaves behind her hut, straining and pushing until the baby slipped out.

They named him Anikwenwa: the earth god Ani had finally granted a child. He was dark and solidly built and had Obierika's happy curiosity. Obierika took him to pick medicinal herbs, to collect clay for Nwamgba's pottery, to twist yam vines at the farm. Obierika's cousins Okafo and Okoye visited too often. They marveled at how well Anikwenwa played the flute, how quickly he was learning poetry and wrestling moves from his father, but Nwamgba saw the glowing malevolence that their smiles could not hide. She feared for her child and her husband, and when Obierika died—a man who had been hearty and laughing and drinking palm wine moments before he slumped—she knew that they had killed him with medicine. She clung to his corpse until a neighbor slapped her to make her let go; she lay in the cold ash for days; she tore at the patterns shaved into her hair. Obierika's death left her with an unending despair. She thought often of the woman who, after her tenth successive child died, had gone to her backyard and hanged herself on a kola tree. But she would not do it, because of Anikwenwa.
     Later, she wished she had insisted that his cousins drink Obierika's mmili ozu before the oracle. She had witnessed this once, when a wealthy man died and his family insisted his rival drink his mmili ozu. Nwamgba had watched the unmarried woman take a cupped leaf full of water, touch it to the dead man's body, all the time speaking solemnly, and give the leaf-cup to the accused man. He drank. Everyone watched to make sure he swallowed, a grave silence in the air because they knew that if he was guilty he would die. He died days later, and his family lowered their heads in shame and Nwamgba felt strangely shaken by it all. She should have insisted on this with Obierika's cousins, but she had been blinded by grief and now Obierika was buried and it was too late.
     His cousins, during the funeral, took his ivory tusk, claiming that the trappings of titles went to brothers and not to sons. It was when they emptied his barn of yams and led away the adult goats in his pen that she confronted them, shouting, and when they brushed her aside, she waited until evening and then walked around the clan singing about their wickedness, the. abominations they were heaping on the land by cheating a widow, until the elders asked them to leave her alone. She complained to the Women's Council, and twenty women went at night to Okafo and Okoye's home, brandishing pestles, warning them to leave Nwamgba alone. Members of Obierika's age grade, too, told them to leave her alone. But Nwamgba knew those grasping cousins would never really stop. She dreamed of killing them. She certainly could—those weaklings who had spent their lives scrounging off Obierika instead of working—but of course she would be banished and there would be nobody to care for her son. So she took Anikwenwa on long walks, telling him that the land from that palm tree to that plantain tree was theirs, that his grandfather had passed it on to his father. She told him the same things over and over, even though he looked bored and bewildered, and she did not let him go and play at moonlight unless she was watching.

Ayaju came back from a trading journey with another story: the women in Onicha were complaining about the white men. They had welcomed the white men's trading station, but now the white men wanted to tell them how to trade, and when the elders of Agueke, a clan of Onicha, refused to place their thumbs on a paper, the white men came at night with their normal-men helpers and razed the village. There was nothing left. Nwamgba did not understand. What sort of guns did these white men have? Ayaju laughed and said their guns were nothing like the rusty thing her own husband owned. Some white men were visiting different clans, asking parents to send their children to school, and she had decided to send Azuka, the son who was laziest on the farm, because although she was respected and wealthy, she was still of slave descent, her sons still barred from taking titles. She wanted Azuka to learn the ways of these foreigners, since people ruled over others not because they were better people but because they had better guns; after all, her own father would not have been brought as a slave if his clan had been as well armed as Nwamgba's clan. As Nwamgba listened to her friend, she dreamed of killing Obierika's cousins with the white men's guns.
     The day that the white men visited her clan, Nwamgba left the pot she was about to put in her oven, took Anikwenwa and her girl apprentices, and hurried to the square. She was at first disappointed by the ordinariness of the two white men; they were harmless-looking, the color of albinos, with frail and slender limbs. Their companions were normal men, but there was something foreign about them, too, and only one spoke a strangely accented Igbo. He said that he was from Elele; the other normal men were from Sierra Leone, and the white men from France, far across the sea. They were all of the Holy Ghost Congregation; they had arrived in Onicha in 1885 and were building their school and church there. Nwamgba was first to ask a question: Had they brought their guns by any chance, the ones used to destroy the people of Agueke, and could she see one? The man said unhappily that it was the soldiers of the British government and merchants of the Royal Niger Company who destroyed villages; they, instead, brought good news. He spoke about their god, who had come to the world to die, and who had a son but no wife, and who was three but also one. Many of the people around Nwamgba laughed loudly. Some walked away, because they had imagined that the white man was full of wisdom. Others stayed and offered cool bowls of water.
     Weeks later, Ayaju brought another story: the white men had set up a courthouse in Onicha where they judged disputes. They had indeed come to stay. For the first time, Nwamgba doubted her friend. Surely the people of Onicha had their own courts. The clan next to Nwamgba's, for example, held its courts only during the new yam festival, so that people's rancor grew while they awaited justice. A stupid system, Nwamgba thought, but surely everyone had one. Ayaju laughed and told Nwamgba again that people ruled others when they had better guns. Her son was already learning about these foreign ways, and perhaps Anikwenwa should, too. Nwamgba refused. It was unthinkable that her only son, her single eye, should be given to the white men, never mind how superior their guns might be.

Three events, in the following years, caused Nwamgba to change her mind. The first was that Obierika's cousins took over a large piece of land and told the elders that they were farming it for her, a woman who had emasculated their dead brother and now refused to remarry even though suitors were coming and her breasts were still round. The elders sided with them. The second was that Ayaju told a story of two people who took a land case to the white men's court; the first man was lying but could speak the white men's language, while the second man, the rightful owner of the land, could not, and so he lost his case, was beaten and locked up and ordered to give up his land. The third was the story of the boy Iroegbunam, who had gone missing many years ago and then suddenly reappeared, a grown man, his widowed mother mute with shock! at his story: a neighbor, whom his father often shouted down at age-grade meetings, had abducted him when his mother was at the market and taken him to the Aro slave dealers, who looked him over and complained that the wound on his leg would reduce his price. Then he and some others were tied together by the hands, forming a long human column, and he was hit with a stick and asked to walk faster. There was only one woman among them. She shouted herself hoarse, telling the abductors that they were heartless, that her spirit would torment them and their children, that she knew she was to be sold to the white man, and did they not know that the white man's slavery was very different, that people were treated like goats, taken on large ships a long way away and eventually eaten? Iroegbunam walked and walked and walked, his feet bloodied, his body numb, with a little water poured into his mouth from time to time, until all he could remember later was the smell of dust. Finally they stopped at a coastal clan, where a man spoke a nearly incomprehensible Igbo, but Iroegbunam made out enough to understand that another man, who was to sell the abductees to the white people on the ship, had gone up to bargain with the white people but had himself been kidnapped. There were loud arguments, scuffling; some of the abductees yanked at the ropes and Iroegbunam passed out. He awoke to find a white man rubbing his feet with oil, and at first he was terrified, certain that he was being prepared for the white man's meal. But this was a different kind of white man, a missionary who bought slaves only to free them, and he took Iroegbunam to live with him and trained him to be a Christian missionary.
     Iroegbunam s story haunted Nwamgba, because this, she was sure, was the way Obierika's cousins were likely to get rid of her son. Killing him was too dangerous, the risk of misfortunes from the oracle too high, but they would be able to sell him as long as they had strong medicine to protect themselves. She was struck, too, by how Iroegbunam lapsed into the white man's language from time to time. It sounded nasal and disgusting. Nwamgba had no desire to speak such a thing herself, but she was suddenly determined that Anikwenwa would speak it well enough to go to the white men's court with Obierika's cousins and defeat them and take control of what was his. And so, shortly after Iroegbunam's return, she told Ayaju that she wanted to take her son to school.

They went first to the Anglican mission. The classroom had more girls than boys—a few curious boys wandered in with their catapaults and then wandered out. The students sat with slates on their laps while the teacher stood in front of them, holding a big cane, telling them a story about a man who transformed a bowl of water into wine. Nwamgba was impressed by the teacher's spectacles, and she thought that the man in the story must have had fairly powerful medicine to be able to transform water into wine. But when the girls were separated and a woman teacher came to teach them how to sew, Nwamgba found this silly; in her clan girls learned to make pottery and a man sewed cloth. What dissuaded her completely about the school, however, was that the instruction was done in Igbo. Nwamgba asked the first teacher why. He said that of course the students were taught English—he held up the English primer—but children learned best in their own language, and the children in the white men's land were taught in their own language, too. Nwamgba turned to leave. The teacher stood in her way and told her that the Catholic missionaries were harsh and did not have the best interests of the natives at \ heart. Nwamgba was amused by these foreigners, who did not seem to know that one must, in front of strangers, pretend to have unity. But she had come in search of English, and so she walked past him and went to the Catholic mission.
     Father Shanahan told her that Anikwenwa would have to take an English name, because it was not possible to be baptized with a heathen name. She agreed easily. His name was Anikwenwa as far as she was concerned; if they wanted to name him something she could not pronounce before teaching him their language, she did not mind at all. All that mattered was that he learn enough of the language to fight his father's cousins. Father Shanahan looked at Anikwenwa, a dark-skinned, well-muscled child, and guessed that he was about twelve, although he found it difficult to estimate the ages of these people; sometimes a mere boy would look like a man, nothing like in Eastern Africa, where he had previously worked and where the natives tended to be slender, less confusingly muscular. As he poured some water on the boy's head, he said, "Michael, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."
     He gave the boy a singlet and a pair of shorts, because the people of the living God did not walk around naked, and he tried to preach to the boy's mother, but she looked at him as if he were a child who did not know any better.There was something troublingly assertive about her, something he had seen in many women here; there was much potential to be harnessed if their wildness could be tamed. This Nwamgba would make a marvelous missionary among the women. He watched her leave. There was a grace in her straight back, and she, unlike others, had not spent too much time going round and round in her speech. It infuriated him, their overlong talk and circuitous proverbs, their never getting to the point, but he was determined to excel here; it was the reason he had joined the Holy Ghost Congregation, whose special vocation was the redemption of black heathens.

Nwamgba was alarmed by how indiscriminately the missionaries flogged students—for being late, for being lazy, for being slow, for being idle. And once, as Anikwenwa told her, Father Lutz had put metal cuffs around a girl's wrists to teach her a lesson about lying, all the time saying in Igbo—for Father Lutz spoke a broken brand of Igbo—that native parents pampered their children too much, that teaching the Gospel also meant teaching proper discipline. The first weekend Anikwenwa came home, Nwamgba saw angry welts on his back. She tightened her wrapper on her waist and went to the school. She told the teacher that she would gouge out the eyes of everyone at the mission if they ever did that to him again. She knew that Anikwenwa did not want to go to school, and she told him that it was only for a year or two, so that he would learn English, and although the mission people told her not to come so often, she insistently came every weekend to take him home. Anikwenwa always took off his clothes even before they left the mission compound. He disliked the shorts and shirt that made him sweat, the fabric that was itchy around his armpits. He disliked, too, being in the same class as old men and missing out on wrestling contests.
     Perhaps it was because he began to notice the admiring glances his clothes brought in the clan but Anikwenwa's attitude to school slowly changed. Nwamgba first noticed this when some of the other boys with whom he swept the village square complained that he no longer did his share because he was at school, and Anikwenwa said something in English, something sharp-sounding, which shut them up and filled Nwamgba with an indulgent pride. Her pride turned to a vague worry when she noticed that the curiosity in his eyes had diminished. There was a new ponderousness in him, as if he had suddenly found himself bearing the weight of a too-heavy world. He stared at things for too long. He stopped eating her food, because, he said, it was sacrificed to idols. He told her to tie her wrapper around her chest instead of her waist, because her nakedness was sinful. She looked at him, amused by his earnestness, but worried nonetheless, and asked why he had only just begun to notice her nakedness.
     When it was time for his ima mmuo ceremony, he said he would not participate, because it was a heathen custom for boys to be initiated into the world of spirits, a custom that Father Shanahan had said would have to stop. Nwamgba roughly yanked his ear and told him that a foreign albino could not determine when their customs would change, so until the clan itself decided that the initiation would stop, he would participate or else he would tell her whether he was her son or the white man's son. Anikwenwa reluctantly agreed, but as he was taken away with a group of boys, she noticed that he lacked their excitement. His sadness saddened her. She felt her son slipping away from her, and yet she was proud that he was learning so much, that he could become a court interpreter or a letter writer, and that with Father Lutz s help he had brought home some papers that showed that their lands belonged to him and his mother. Her proudest moment was when he went to his father's cousins Okafo and Okoye and asked for his father's ivory tusk back. And they gave it to him.
     Nwamgba knew that her son now inhabited a mental space that was foreign to her. He told her that he was going to Lagos to learn how to be a teacher, and even as she screamed—How can you leave me? Who will bury me when I die?—she knew he would go. She did not see him for many years, years during which his father's cousin Okafo died. She often consulted the oracle to ask whether Anikwenwa was still alive; the dibia admonished her and sent her away, because of course he was alive. At last Anikwenwa returned, in the year that the clan banned all dogs after a dog killed a member of the Mmangala age grade, the age grade to which Anikwenwa would have belonged if he had not said that such things were devilish.
     Nwamgba said nothing when he announced that he had been appointed catechist at the new mission. She was sharpening her aguba on the palm of her hand, about to shave patterns in the hair of a little girl, and she continued to do so—flick-flick-flick—while Anikwenwa talked about winning souls in their clan. The plate of breadfruit seeds she had offered him was untouched—he no longer ate anything at all of hers—and she looked at him, this man wearing trousers, and a rosary around his neck, and wondered whether she had meddled with his destiny. Was this what his chi had ordained for him, this life in which he was like a person diligently acting a bizarre pantomime?
     The day that he told her about the woman he would marry, she was not surprised. He did not do it as it was done, did not consult people to ask about the bride's family, but simply said that somebody at the mission had seen a suitable young woman from Ifite Ukpo and the suitable young woman would be taken to the Sisters of the Holy Rosary in Onicha to learn how to be a good Christian wife. Nwamgba was sick with malaria on that day, lying on her mud bed, rubbing her aching joints, and she asked Anikwenwa the young woman's name. Anikwenwa said it was Agnes. Nwamgba asked for the young woman's real name. Anikwenwa cleared his throat and said she had been called Mgbeke before she became a Christian, and Nwamgba asked whether Mgbeke would at least do the confession ceremony even if Anikwenwa would not follow the other marriage rites of their clan. He shook his head furiously and told her that the confession made by a woman before marriage, in which she, surrounded by female relatives, swore that no man had touched her since her husband had declared his interest, was sinful, because Christian wives should not have been touched at all.
     The marriage ceremony in church was laughably strange, but Nwamgba bore it silently and told herself that she would die soon and join Obierika and be free of a world that increasingly made no sense. She was determined to dislike her son's wife, but Mgbeke was difficult to dislike; she was small-waisted and gentle, eager to please the man to whom she was married, eager to please everyone, quick to cry, apologetic about things over which she had no control. And so, instead, Nwamgba pitied her. Mgbeke often visited Nwamgba in tears, saying that Anikwenwa had refused to eat dinner because he was upset with her or that Anikwenwa had banned her from going to a friend's Anglican wedding because Anglicans did not preach the truth, and Nwamgba would silently carve designs on her pottery while Mgbeke cried, uncertain of how to handle a woman crying about things that did not deserve tears.

Mgbeke was called "missus" by everyone, even the non-Christians, all of whom respected the catechist's wife, but on the day she went to the Oyi stream and refused to remove her clothes because she was a Christian, the women of the clan, outraged that she dared to disrespect the goddess, beat her and dumped her at the grove. The news spread quickly. Missus had been harassed. Anikwenwa threatened to lock up all the elders if his wife was treated that way again, but Father O'Donnell, on his next trek from his station in Onicha, visited the elders and apologized on Mgbeke s behalf and asked whether perhaps Christian women could be allowed to fetch water fully clothed. The elders refused—if one wanted Oyi's waters, then one had to follow Oyi's rules—but they were courteous to Father O'Donnell, who listened to them and did not behave like their own son Anikwenwa.
     Nwamgba was ashamed of her son, irritated with his wife, upset by their rarefied life in which they treated non-Christians as if they had smallpox, but she held out her hope for a grandchild; she prayed and sacrificed for Mgbeke to have a boy, because it would be Obierika come back and would bring a semblance of sense back into her world. She did not know of Mgbeke's first or second miscarriage, it was only after the third that Mgbeke, sniffling and blowing her nose, told her.They had to consult the oracle, as this was a family misfortune, Nwamgba said, but Mgbeke's eyes widened with fear. Michael would be very angry if he ever heard of this oracle suggestion. Nwamgba, who still found it difficult to remember that Michael was Anikwenwa, went to the oracle herself, and afterwards thought it ludicrous how even the gods had changed and no longer asked for palm wine but for gin. Had they converted, too?
     A few months later, Mgbeke visited, smiling, bringing a covered bowl of one of those concoctions that Nwamgba found inedible, and Nwamgba knew that her chi was still wide awake and that her daughter-in-law was pregnant. Anikwenwa had decreed that Mgbeke would have the baby at the mission in Onicha, but the gods had different plans and she went into early labor on a rainy afternoon; somebody ran in the drenching rain to Nwamgba's hut to call her. It was a boy. Father O'Donnell baptized him Peter, but Nwamgba called him Nnamdi, because she believed he was Obierika come back. She sang to him, and when he cried she pushed her dried-up nipple into his mouth, but try as she might, she did not feel the spirit of her magnificent husband Obierika. Mgbeke had three more miscarriages and Nwamgba went to the oracle many times until a pregnancy stayed and the second baby was born, this time at the mission in Onicha. A girl. From the moment Nwamgba held her, the baby's bright eyes delightfully focused on her, she knew that it was the spirit of Obierika that had returned; odd, to have come in a girl, but who could predict the ways of the ancestors? Father O'Donnell baptized her Grace, but Nwamgba called her Afamefuna, "My Name Will Not Be Lost," and was thrilled by the child's solemn interest in her poetry and her stories, the teenager's keen watchfulness as Nwamgba struggled to make pottery with newly shaky hands. But Nwamgba was not thrilled that Afamefuna was to go away to secondary school (Peter was already living with the priests in Onicha), because she feared that, at boarding school, the new ways would dissolve her granddaughter's fighting spirit and replace it either with an incurious rigidity, like Anikwenwa's, or a limp helplessness, like Mgbeke's.

The year that Afamefuna left for secondary school in Onicha, Nwamgba felt as if a lamp had been blown out on a moonless night. It was a strange year, the year that darkness suddenly descended on the land in the middle of the afternoon, and when Nwamgba felt the deep-seated ache in her joints, she knew her end was near. She lay on her bed gasping for breath, while Anikwenwa pleaded with her to be baptized and anointed so that he could hold a Christian funeral for her, as he could not participate in a heathen ceremony. Nwamgba told him that if he dared to bring anybody to rub some filthy oil on her, she would slap that person with her last strength. All she wanted was to see Afamefuna before she joined the ancestors, but Anikwenwa said that Grace was taking exams in school and could not come home. But she came. Nwamgba heard the squeaky swing of her door and there was Afamefuna, her granddaughter who had come on her own from Onicha because she had been unable to sleep for days, her restless spirit urging her home. Grace put down her schoolbag, inside of which was her textbook with a chapter called "The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of Southern Nigeria," by an administrator from Worcestershire who had lived among them for seven years.
     It was Grace who would read about these savages, titillated by their curious and meaningless customs, not connecting them to herself until her teacher, Sister Maureen, told her she could not refer to the call-and-response her grandmother had taught her as poetry because primitive tribes did not have poetry. It was Grace who would laugh loudly until Sister Maureen took her to detention and then summoned her father, who slapped Grace in front of the teachers to show them how well he disciplined his children. It was Grace who would nurse a deep scorn for her father for years, spending holidays working as a maid in Onicha so as to avoid the sanctimonies, the dour certainties, of her parents and brother. It was Grace who, after graduating from secondary school, would teach elementary school in Agueke, where people told stories of the destruction of their village years before by the white men's guns, stories she was not sure she believed, because they also told stories of mermaids appearing from the River Niger holding wads of crisp cash. It was Grace who, as one of the few women at the University College in Ibadan in 1950, would change her degree from chemistry to history after she heard, while drinking tea at the home of a friend, the story of Mr. Gboyega. The eminent Mr. Gboyega, a chocolate-skinned Nigerian, educated in London, distinguished expert on the history of the British Empire, had resigned in disgust when the West African Examinations Council began talking of adding African history to the curriculum, because he was appalled that African history would even be considered a subject. Grace would ponder this story for a long time, with great sadness, and it would cause her to make a clear link between education and dignity, between the hard, obvious things that are printed in books and the soft, subtle things that lodge themselves into the soul. It was Grace who would begin to rethink her own schooling—how lustily she had sung, on Empire Day, "God bless our Gracious King. Send him victorious, happy and glorious: Long to reign over us"; how she had puzzled over words like "wallpaper" and "dandelions" in her textbooks, unable to picture those things; how she had struggled with arithmetic problems that had to do with mixtures, because what was coffee and what was chicory and why did they have to be mixed? It was Grace who would begin to rethink her father's schooling and then hurry home to see him, his eyes watery with age, telling him she had not received all the letters she had ignored, saying amen when he prayed, pressing her lips against his forehead. It was Grace who, driving past Agueke on her way back, would become haunted by the image of a destroyed village and would go to London and to Paris and to Onicha, sifting through moldy files in archives, reimagining the lives and smells of her grandmother's world, for the book she would write called Pacifying with Bullets: A Reclaimed History of Southern Nigeria. It was Grace who, in a conversation about the early manuscript with her fiancé, George Chikadibia—stylish graduate of Kings College, Lagos; engineer-to-be; wearer of three-piece suits; expert ballroom dancer who often said that a grammar school without Latin was like a cup of tea without sugar—knew that the marriage would not last when George told her she was misguided to write about primitive culture instead of a worthwhile topic like African Alliances in the American-Soviet Tension. They would divorce in 1972, not because of the four miscarriages Grace had suffered but because she woke up sweating one night and realized that she would strangle him to death if she had to listen to one more rapturous monologue about his Cambridge days. It was Grace who, as she received faculty prizes, as she spoke to solemn-faced people at conferences about the Ijaw and Ibibio and Igbo and Efik peoples of Southern Nigeria, as she wrote reports for international organizations about commonsense things for "which she nevertheless received generous pay, would imagine her grandmother looking on and chuckling with great amusement. It was Grace who, feeling an odd rootlessness in the later years of her life, surrounded by her awards, her friends, her garden of peerless roses, would go to the courthouse in Lagos and officially change her first name from Grace to Afamefuna.
     But on that day as she sat at her grandmother's bedside in the fading evening light, Grace was not contemplating her future. She simply held her grandmother's hand, the palm thickened from years of making pottery.


Half of a Yellow Sun, Chapter 1.

Master was a little crazy; he had spent too many years reading books overseas, talked to himself in his office, did not always return greetings, and had too much hair. Ugwu's aunty said this in a low voice as they walked on the path. 'But he is a good man,' she added. 'And as long as you work well, you will eat well. You will even eat meat every day.' She stopped to spit; the saliva left her mouth with a sucking sound and landed on the grass.
     Ugwu did not believe that anybody, not even this master he was going to live with, ate meat every day. He did not disagree with his aunty, though, because he was too choked with expectation, too busy imagining his new life away from the village. They had been walking for a while now, since they got off the lorry at the motor park, and the afternoon sun burned the back of his neck. But he did not mind. He was prepared to walk hours more in even hotter sun. He had never seen anything like the streets that appeared after they went past the university gates, streets so smooth and tarred that he itched to lay his cheek down on them. He would never be able to describe to his sister Anulika how the bungalows here were painted the colour of the sky and sat side by side like polite, well-dressed men, how the hedges separating them were trimmed so flat on top that they looked like tables wrapped with leaves.
     His aunty walked faster, her slippers making slap-slap sounds that echoed in the silent street. Ugwu wondered if she, too, could feel the coal tar getting hotter underneath, through her thin soles. They went past a sign, ODIM STREET, and Ugwu mouthed street, as he did whenever he saw an English word that was not too long. He smelt something sweet, heady, as they walked into a compound, and was sure it came from the white flowers clustered on the bushes at the entrance. The bushes were shaped like slender hills. The lawn glistened. Butterflies hovered above.
     'I told Master you will learn everything fast, osiso-osiso,' his aunty said. Ugwu nodded attentively although she had already told him this many times, as often as she told him the story of how his good fortune came about: While she was sweeping the corridor in the Mathematics Department a week ago, she heard Master say that he needed a houseboy to do his cleaning, and she immediately said she could help, speaking before his typist or office messenger could offer to bring someone.
     'I will learn fast, Aunty,' Ugwu said. He was staring at the car in the garage; a strip of metal ran around its blue body like a necklace.
     'Remember, what you will answer whenever he calls you is Yes, sah!'
     'Yes, sah!' Ugwu repeated.
     They were standing before the glass door. Ugwu held back from reaching out to touch the cement wall, to see how different it would feel from the mud walls of his mother's hut that still bore the faint patterns of moulding fingers. For a brief moment, he wished he were back there now, in his mother's hut, under the dim coolness of the thatch roof; or in his aunty's hut, the only one in the village with a corrugated-iron roof.
     His aunty tapped on the glass. Ugwu could see the white curtains behind the door. A voice said, in English, 'Yes? Come in.'
     They took off their slippers before walking in. Ugwu had never seen a room so wide. Despite the brown sofas arranged in a semicircle, the side tables between them, the shelves crammed with books, and the centre table with a vase of red and white plastic flowers, the room still seemed to have too much space. Master sat in an armchair, wearing a singlet and a pair of shorts. He was not sitting upright but slanted, a book covering his face, as though oblivious that he had just asked people in.
     'Good afternoon, sah! This is the child,' Ugwu's aunty said.
     Master looked up. His complexion was very dark, like old bark, and the hair that covered his chest and legs was a lustrous, darker shade. He pulled off his glasses. 'The child?'
     'The houseboy, sah.'
     'Oh, yes, you have brought the houseboy. I kpotago ya.' Master's Igbo felt feathery in Ugwu's ears. It was Igbo coloured by the sliding sounds of English, the Igbo of one who spoke English often.
     'He will work hard,' his aunty said. 'He is a very good boy. Just tell him what he should do. Thank, sah!'
     Master grunted in response, watching Ugwu and his aunty with a faintly distracted expression, as if their presence made it difficult for him to remember something important. Ugwu's aunty patted Ugwu's shoulder, whispered that he should do well, and turned to the door. After she left, Master put his glasses back on and faced his book, relaxing further into a slanting position, legs stretched out. Even when he turned the pages he did so with his eyes on the book.
     Ugwu stood by the door, waiting. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and from time to time, a gentle breeze lifted the curtains. The room was silent except for the rustle of Master's page turning. Ugwu stood for a while before he began to edge closer and closer to the bookshelf, as though to hide in it, and then, after a while, he sank down to the floor, cradling his raffia bag between his knees. He looked up at the ceiling, so high up, so piercingly white. He closed his eyes and tried to reimagine this spacious room with the alien furniture, but he couldn't. He opened his eyes, overcome by a new wonder, and looked around to make sure it was all real. To think that he would sit on these sofas, polish this slippery-smooth floor, wash these gauzy curtains.
     'Kedu afa gi? What's your name?' Master asked, startling him.
     Ugwu stood up.
     'What's your name?' Master asked again and sat up straight. He filled the armchair, his thick hair that stood high on his head, his muscled arms, his broad shoulders; Ugwu had imagined an older man, somebody frail, and now he felt a sudden fear that he might not please this master who looked so youthfully capable, who looked as if he needed nothing.
     'Ugwu, sah.'
     'Ugwu. And you've come from Obukpa?'
     'From Opi, sah.'
     'You could be anything from twelve to thirty.' Master narrowed his eyes. 'Probably thirteen.' He said thirteen in English.
     'Yes, sah.'
     Master turned back to his book. Ugwu stood there. Master flipped past some pages and looked up. 'Ngwa, go to the kitchen; there should be something you can eat in the fridge.'
     'Yes, sah.'
     Ugwu entered the kitchen cautiously, placing one foot slowly after the other. When he saw the white thing, almost as tall as he was, he knew it was the fridge. His aunty had told him about it. A cold barn, she had said, that kept food from going off. He opened it and gasped as the cool air rushed into his face. Oranges, bread, beer, soft drinks: many things in packets and cans were arranged on different levels and, at the top, a roasted, shimmering chicken, whole but for a leg. Ugwu reached out and touched the chicken. The fridge breathed heavily in his ears. He touched the chicken again and licked his finger before he yanked the other leg off, eating it until he had only the cracked, sucked pieces of bones left in his hand. Next, he broke off some bread, a chunk that he would have been excited to share with his siblings if a relative had visited and brought it as a gift. He ate quickly, before Master could come in and change his mind. He had finished eating and was standing by the sink, trying to remember what his aunty had told him about opening it to have water gush out like a spring, when Master walked in. He had put on a print shirt and a pair of trousers. His toes, which peeked through leather slippers, seemed feminine, perhaps because they were so clean; they belonged to feet that always wore shoes.
     'What is it?' Master asked.
     'Sah?' Ugwu gestured to the sink.
     Master came over and turned the metal tap. 'You should look around the house and put your bag in the first room on the corridor. I'm going for a walk, to clear my head, i nugo?'
     'Yes, sah.' Ugwu watched him leave through the back door. He was not tall. His walk was brisk, energetic, and he looked like Ezeagu, the man who held the wrestling record in Ugwu's village.
     Ugwu turned off the tap, turned it on again, then off. On and off and on and off until he was laughing at the magic of the running water and the chicken and bread that lay balmy in his stomach. He went past the living room and into the corridor. There were books piled on the shelves and tables in the three bedrooms, on the sink and cabinets in the bathroom, stacked from floor to ceiling in the study, and in the storeroom, old journals were stacked next to crates of Coke and cartons of Premier beer. Some of the books were placed face down, open, as though Master had not yet finished reading them but had hastily gone on to another. Ugwu tried to read the titles, but most were too long, too difficult. Non-Parametric Methods. An African Survey. The Great Chain of Being. The Norman Impact Upon England. He walked on tiptoe from room to room, because his feet felt dirty, and as he did so he grew increasingly determined to please Master, to stay in this house of meat and cool floors. He was examining the toilet, running his hand over the black plastic seat, when he heard Master's voice.
     'Where are you, my good man?' He said my good man in English.
     Ugwu dashed out to the living room. 'Yes, sah!'
     'What's your name again?'
     'Ugwu, sah.'
     'Yes, Ugwu. Look here, nee anya, do you know what that is?' Master pointed, and Ugwu looked at the metal box studded with dangerous-looking knobs.
     'No, sah,' Ugwu said.
     'It's a radiogram. It's new and very good. It's not like those old gramophones that you have to wind and wind. You have to be very careful around it, very careful. You must never let water touch it.'
     'Yes, sah.'
     'I'm off to play tennis, and then I'll go on to the staff club.' Master picked up a few books from the table. 'I may be back late. So get settled and have a rest.'
     'Yes, sah.'
     After Ugwu watched Master drive out of the compound, he went and stood beside the radiogram and looked at it carefully, without touching it. Then he walked around the house, up and down, touching books and curtains and furniture and plates, and when it got dark, he turned the light on and marvelled at how bright the bulb that dangled from the ceiling was, how it did not cast long shadows on the wall like the palm oil lamps back home. His mother would be preparing the evening meal now, pounding akpu in the mortar, the pestle grasped tightly with both hands. Chioke, the junior wife, would be tending the pot of watery soup balanced on three stones over the fire. The children would have come back from the stream and would be taunting and chasing one another under the breadfruit tree. Perhaps Anulika would be watching them. She was the oldest child in the household now, and as they all sat around the fire to eat, she would break up the fights when the younger ones struggled over the strips of dried fish in the soup. She would wait until all the akpu was eaten and then divide the fish so that each child had a piece, and she would keep the biggest for herself, as he had always done.
     Ugwu opened the fridge and ate some more bread and chicken, quickly stuffing the food in his mouth while his heart beat as if he were running; then he dug out extra chunks of meat and pulled out the wings. He slipped the pieces into his shorts' pockets before going to the bedroom. He would keep them until his aunty visited and he would ask her to give them to Anulika. Perhaps he could ask her to give some to Nnesinachi too. That might make Nnesinachi finally notice him. He had never been sure exactly how he and Nnesinachi were related, but he knew they were from the same umunna and therefore could never marry. Yet he wished that his mother would not keep referring to Nnesinachi as his sister, saying things like, 'Please take this palm oil down to Mama Nnesinachi, and if she is not in, leave it with your sister.'
     Nnesinachi always spoke to him in a vague voice, her eyes unfocused, as if his presence made no difference to her either way. Sometimes she called him Chiejina, the name of his cousin who looked nothing at all like him, and when he said, 'It's me', she would say, 'Forgive me, Ugwu my brother,' with a distant formality that meant she had no wish to make further conversation. But he liked going on errands to her house. They were opportunities to find her bent over, fanning the firewood or chopping ugu leaves for her mother's soup pot, or just sitting outside looking after her younger siblings, her wrapper hanging low enough for him to see the tops of her breasts. Ever since they started to push out, those pointy breasts, he had wondered if they would feel mushy-soft or hard like the unripe fruit from the ube tree. He often wished that Anulika wasn't so flat-chested - he wondered what was taking her so long anyway, since she and Nnesinachi were about the same age — so that he could feel her breasts. Anulika would slap his hand away, of course, and perhaps even slap his face as well, but he would do it quickly — squeeze and run — and that way he would at least have an idea and know what to expect when he finally touched Nnesinachi's.
     But he was worried that he might never get to touch them, now that her uncle had asked her to come and learn a trade in Kano. She would be leaving for the North by the end of the year, when her mother's last child, whom she was carrying, began to walk. Ugwu wanted to be as pleased and grateful as the rest of the family. There was, after all, a fortune to be made in the North; he knew of people who had gone up there to trade and came home to tear down huts
and build houses with corrugated-iron roofs. He feared, though, that one of those pot-bellied traders in the North would take one look at her, and the next thing he knew somebody would bring palm wine to her father and he would never get to touch those breasts. They - her breasts - were the images saved for last on the many nights when he touched himself, slowly at first and then vigorously, until a muffled moan escaped him. He always started with her face, the fullness of her cheeks and the ivory tone of her teeth, and then he imagined her arms around him, her body moulded to his. Finally, he let her breasts form; sometimes they felt hard, tempting him to bite into them, and other times they were so soft he was afraid his imaginary squeezing caused her pain.
     For 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, he pressed 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 at the 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 English, 'Education is a priority! How can we resist exploitation if we don't have the tools to understand exploitation?'
     'Yes, sah!' Ugwu nodded vigorously. He was determined to appear as alert as he could, because of the wild shine that had appeared in Master's eyes.
     'I will enrol you in the staff primary school,' Master said, still tapping on the piece of paper with his pen.
     Ugwu's aunty had told him that if he served well for a few years, Master would send him to commercial school where he would learn typing and shorthand. She had mentioned the staff primary school, but only to tell him that it was for the children of the lecturers, who wore blue uniforms and white socks so intricately trimmed with wisps of lace that you wondered why anybody had wasted so much time on mere socks.
     'Yes, sah,' he said. Thank, sah.'
     'I suppose you will be the oldest in class, starting in standard three at your age,' Master said. And the only way you can get their respect is to be the best. Do you understand?'
     'Yes, sah!'
     'Sit down, my good man.'
     Ugwu chose the chair farthest from Master, awkwardly placing his feet close together. He preferred to stand.
     There are two answers to the things they will teach you about our land: the real answer and the answer you give in school to pass. You must read books and learn both answers. I will give you books, excellent books.' Master stopped to sip his tea. They will teach you that a white man called Mungo Park discovered River Niger. That is rubbish. Our people fished in the Niger long before Mungo Park's grandfather was born. But in your exam, write that it was Mungo Park.'
     'Yes, sah.' Ugwu wished that this person called Mungo Park had not offended Master so much.
     'Can't you say anything else?'
     'Sah?'
     'Sing me a song.'
     'Sah?'
     'Sing me a song. What songs do you know? Sing!' Master pulled his glasses off. His eyebrows were furrowed, serious. Ugwu began to sing an old song he had learned on his father's farm. His heart hit his chest painfully. 'Nzogbo nzogbu enyimba, enyi ...'
     He sang in a low voice at first, but Master tapped his pen on the table and said 'Louder!' so he raised his voice, and Master kept saying 'Louder!' until he was screaming. After singing over and over a few times, Master asked him to stop. 'Good, good,' he said. 'Can you make tea?'
     'No, sah. But I learn fast,' Ugwu said. The singing had loosened something inside him, he was breathing easily and his heart no longer pounded. And he was convinced that Master was mad.
     'I eat mostly at the staff club. I suppose I shall have to bring more food home now that you are here.'
     'Sah, I can cook.'
     'You cook?'
     Ugwu nodded. He had spent many evenings watching his mother cook. He had started the fire for her, or fanned the embers when it started to die out. He had peeled and pounded yams and cassava, blown out the husks in rice, picked out the weevils from beans, peeled onions, and ground peppers. Often, when his mother was sick with the coughing, he wished that he, and not Anulika, would cook. He had never told anyone this, not even Anulika; she had already told him he spent too much time around women cooking, and he might never grow a beard if he kept doing that.
     'Well, you can cook your own food then,' Master said. 'Write a list of what you'll need.'
     'Yes, sah.'
     'You wouldn't know how to get to the market, would you? I'll ask Jomo to show you.'
     'Jomo, sah?'
     'Jomo takes care of the compound. He comes in three times a week. Funny man, I've seen him talking to the croton plant.' Master paused. Anyway, he'll be here tomorrow.'
     Later, Ugwu wrote a list of food items and gave it to Master.
     Master stared at the list for a while. 'Remarkable blend,' he said in English. 'I suppose they'll teach you to use more vowels in school.'
     Ugwu disliked the amusement in Master's face. 'We need wood, sah,' he said.
     'Wood?'
     For your books, sah. So that I can arrange them.'
     'Oh, yes, shelves. I suppose we could fit more shelves somewhere, perhaps in the corridor. I will speak to somebody at the Works Department.'
     'Yes, sah.'
     'Odenigbo. Call me Odenigbo.'
     Ugwu stared at him doubtfully. 'Sah?'
     'My name is not Sah. Call me Odenigbo.'
     'Yes, sah.'
     'Odenigbo will always be my name. Sir is arbitrary. You could be the sir tomorrow.'
     'Yes, sah - Odenigbo.'
     Ugwu really preferred sah, the crisp power behind the word, and when two men from the Works Department came a few days later to install shelves in the corridor, he told them that they would have to wait for Sah to come home; he himself could not sign the white paper with typewritten words. He said Sah proudly.
     'He's one of these village houseboys,' one of the men said dismissively, and Ugwu looked at the man's face and murmured a curse about acute diarrhoea following him and all of his offspring for life. As he arranged Master's books, he promised himself, stopping short of speaking aloud, that he would learn how to sign forms.
     In the following weeks, the weeks when he examined every corner of the bungalow, when he discovered that a beehive was lodged in the cashew tree and that the butterflies converged in the front yard when the sun was brightest, he was just as careful in learning the rhythms of Master's life. Every morning, he picked up the Daily Times and Renaissance that the vendor dropped off at the door and folded them on the table next to Master's tea and bread. He had the Opel washed before Master finished breakfast, and when Master came back from work and was taking a siesta, he dusted the car over again, before Master left for the tennis courts. He moved around silently on the days that Master retired to the study for hours. When Master paced the corridor talking in a loud voice, he made sure that there was hot water ready for tea. He scrubbed the floors daily. He wiped the louvres until they sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, paid attention to the tiny cracks in the bathtub, polished the saucers that he used to serve kola nut to Master's friends. There were at least two visitors in the living room each day, the radiogram turned on low to strange flutelike music, low enough for the talking and laughing and glass clinking to come clearly to Ugwu in the kitchen or in the corridor as he ironed Master's clothes.
     He wanted to do more, wanted to give Master every reason to keep him, and so one morning, he ironed Master's socks. They didn't look rumpled, the black ribbed socks, but he thought they would look even better straightened. The hot iron hissed and when he raised it, he saw that half of the sock was glued to it. He froze. Master was at the dining table, finishing up breakfast, and would come in any minute now to pull on his socks and shoes and take the files on the shelf and leave for work. Ugwu wanted to hide the sock under the chair and dash to the drawer for a new pair but his legs would not move. He stood there with the burnt sock, knowing Master would find him that way.
     'You've ironed my socks, haven't you?' Master asked. 'You stupid ignoramus.' Stupid ignoramus slid out of his mouth like music.
     'Sorry, sah! Sorry, sah!'
     'I told you not to call me sir.' Master picked up a file from the shelf. Tm late.'
     'Sah? Should I bring another pair?' Ugwu asked. But Master had already slipped on his shoes, without socks, and hurried out. Ugwu heard him bang the car door and drive away. His chest felt weighty; he did not know why he had ironed the socks, why he had not simply done the safari suit. Evil spirits, that was it. The evil spirits had made him do it. They lurked everywhere, after all. Whenever he was ill with the fever, or once when he fell from a tree, his mother would rub his body with okwuma, all the while muttering, *We shall defeat them, they will not win.'
     He went out to the front yard, past stones placed side by side around the manicured lawn. The evil spirits would not win. He would not let them defeat him. There was a round, grassless patch in the middle of the lawn, like an island in a green sea, where a thin palm tree stood. Ugwu had never seen any palm tree that short, or one with leaves that flared out so perfectly. It did not look strong enough to bear fruit, did not look useful at all, like most of the plants here. He picked up a stone and threw it into the distance. So much wasted space. In his village, people farmed the tiniest plots outside their homes and planted useful vegetables and herbs. His grandmother had not needed to grow her favourite herb, arigbe, because it grew wild everywhere. She used to say that arigbe softened a man's heart. She was the second of three wives and did not have the special position that came with being the first or the last, so before she asked her husband for anything, she told Ugwu, she cooked him spicy yam porridge with arigbe. It had worked, always. Perhaps it would work with Master.
     Ugwu walked around in search of arigbe. He looked among the pink flowers, under the cashew tree with the spongy beehive lodged on a branch, the lemon tree that had black soldier ants crawling up and down the trunk, and the pawpaw trees whose ripening fruits were dotted with fat, bird-burrowed holes. But the ground was clean, no herbs; Jomo's weeding was thorough and careful, and nothing that was not wanted was allowed to be.
     The first time they met, Ugwu had greeted Jomo and Jomo nodded and continued to work, saying nothing. He was a small man with a tough, shrivelled body that Ugwu felt needed a watering more than the plants that he targeted with his metal can. Finally, Jomo looked up at Ugwu. 'Afa m bu Jomo,' he announced, as if Ugwu did not know his name. 'Some people call me Kenyatta, after the great man in Kenya. I am a hunter.'
     Ugwu did not know what to say in return because Jomo was staring right into his eyes, as though expecting to hear something remarkable that Ugwu did.
     'What kind of animals do you kill?' Ugwu asked. Jomo beamed, as if this was exactly the question he had wanted, and began to talk about his hunting. Ugwu sat on the steps that led to the backyard and listened. From the first day, he did not believe Jomo's stories - of fighting off a leopard barehanded, of killing two baboons with a single shot — but he liked listening to them and he put off washing Master's clothes to the days Jomo came so he could sit outside while Jomo worked. Jomo moved with a slow deliberateness. His raking, watering, and planting all somehow seemed filled with solemn wisdom. He would look up in the middle of trimming a hedge and say, 'That is good meat,' and then walk to the goatskin bag tied behind his bicycle to rummage for his catapult. Once, he shot a bush pigeon down from the cashew tree with a small stone, wrapped it in leaves, and put it into his bag.
     'Don't go to that bag unless I am around,' he told Ugwu. 'You might find a human head there.'
     Ugwu laughed but had not entirely doubted Jomo. He wished so much that Jomo had come to work today. Jomo would have been the best person to ask about arigbe — indeed, to ask for advice on how best to placate Master.
     He walked out of the compound, to the street, and looked through the plants on the roadside until he saw the rumpled leaves close to the root of a whistling pine. He had never smelt anything like the spicy sharpness of arigbe in the bland food Master brought back from the staff club; he would cook a stew with it, and offer Master some with rice, and afterwards plead with him. Please don't send me back home, sah. I will work extra for the burnt sock. I will earn the money to replace it. He did not know exactly what he could do to earn money for the sock, but he planned to tell Master that anyway.
     If the arigbe softened Master's heart, perhaps he could grow it and some other herbs in the backyard. He would tell Master that the garden was something to do until he started school, since the headmistress at the staff school had told Master that he could not start midterm. He might be hoping for too much, though. What was the point of thinking about a herb garden if Master asked him to leave, if Master would not forgive the burnt sock? He walked quickly into the kitchen, laid the arigbe down on the counter, and measured out some rice.
     Hours later, he felt a tautness in his stomach when he heard Master's car: the crunch of gravel and the hum of the engine before it stopped in the garage. He stood by the pot of stew, stirring, holding the ladle as tightly as the cramps in his stomach felt. Would Master ask him to leave before he had a chance to offer him the food? What would he tell his people?
     'Good afternoon, sah - Odenigbo,' he said, even before Master had come into the kitchen.
     'Yes, yes,' Master said. He was holding books to his chest with one hand and his briefcase with the other. Ugwu rushed over to help with the books. 'Sah? You will eat?' he asked in English.
     'Eat what?'
     Ugwu's stomach got tighter. He feared it might snap as he bent to place the books on the dining table. 'Stew, sah.'
     'Stew?'
     'Yes, sah. Very good stew, sah.'
     'I'll try some, then.'
     'Yes, sah!'
     'Call me Odenigbo!' Master snapped before going in to take an afternoon bath.
     After Ugwu served the food, he stood by the kitchen door, watching as Master took a first forkful of rice and stew, took another, and then called out, 'Excellent, my good man.'
     Ugwu appeared from behind the door. 'Sah? I can plant the herbs in a small garden. To cook more stews like this.'
     A garden?' Master stopped to sip some water and turn a journal page. 'No, no, no. Outside is Jomo's territory, and inside is yours. Division of labour, my good man. If we need herbs, we'll ask Jomo to take care of it.' Ugwu loved the sound of Division of labour, my good man, spoken in English.
     'Yes, sah,' he said, although he was already thinking of what spot would be best for the herb garden: near the Boys' Quarters where Master never went. He could not trust Jomo with the herb garden and would tend it himself when Master was out, and this way, his arigbe, his herb of forgiveness, would never run out. It was only later in the evening that he realized Master must have forgotten about the burnt sock long before coming home.
     Ugwu came to realize other things. He was not a normal house-boy; Dr Okeke's houseboy next door did not sleep on a bed in a room, he slept on the kitchen floor. The houseboy at the end of the street with whom Ugwu went to the market did not decide what would be cooked, he cooked whatever he was ordered to. And they did not have masters or madams who gave them books, saying, 'This one is excellent, just excellent.'
     Ugwu did not understand most of the sentences in the books, but he made a show of reading them. Nor did he entirely understand the conversations of Master and his friends but listened anyway and heard that the world had to do more about the black people killed in Sharpeville, that the spy plane shot down in Russia served the Americans right, that De Gaulle was being clumsy in Algeria, that the United Nations would never get rid of Tshombe in Katanga. Once in a while, Master would stand up and raise his glass and his voice - 'To that brave black American led into the University of Mississippi!' 'To Ceylon and to the world's first woman prime minister!' 'To Cuba for beating the Americans at their own game!' - and Ugwu would enjoy the clink of beer bottles against glasses, glasses against glasses, bottles against bottles.
     More friends visited on weekends, and when Ugwu came out to serve their drinks, Master would sometimes introduce him - in English, of course. 'Ugwu helps me around the house. Very clever boy.' Ugwu would continue to uncork bottles of beer and Coke silently, while feeling the warm glow of pride spread up from the tips of his toes. He especially liked it when Master introduced him to foreigners, like Mr Johnson, who was from the Caribbean and stammered when he spoke, or Professor Lehman, the nasal white man from America who had eyes that were the piercing green of a fresh leaf. Ugwu was vaguely frightened the first time he saw him because he had always imagined that only evil spirits had grass-coloured eyes.
     He soon knew the regular guests and brought out their drinks before Master asked him to. There was Dr Patel, the Indian man who drank Golden Guinea beer mixed with Coke. Master called him Doc. Whenever Ugwu brought out the kola nut, Master would say, 'Doc, you know the kola nut does not understand English,' before going on to bless the kola nut in Igbo. Dr Patel laughed each time, with great pleasure, leaning back on the sofa and throwing his short legs up as if it were a joke he had never heard before. After Master broke the kola nut and passed the saucer around, Dr Patel always took a lobe and put it into his shirt pocket; Ugwu had never seen him eat one.
     There was tall, skinny Professor Ezeka, with a voice so hoarse he sounded as if he spoke in whispers. He always picked up his glass and held it up against the light, to make sure Ugwu had washed it well. Sometimes, he brought his own bottle of gin. Other times, he asked for tea and then went on to examine the sugar bowl and the tin of milk, muttering, 'The capabilities of bacteria are quite extraordinary.'
     There was Okeoma, who came most often and stayed the longest. He looked younger than the other guests, always wore a pair of shorts, and had bushy hair with a parting at the side that stood higher than Master's. It looked rough and tangled, unlike Master's, as if Okeoma did not like to comb it. Okeoma drank Fanta. He read his poetry aloud on some evenings, holding a sheaf of papers, and Ugwu would look through the kitchen door to see all the guests watching him, their faces half frozen, as if they did not dare breathe. Afterwards, Master would clap and say, in his loud voice, 'The voice of our generation!' and the clapping would go on until Okeoma said sharply, That's enough!'
     And there was Miss Adebayo, who drank brandy like Master and was nothing like Ugwu had expected a university woman to be. His aunty had told him a little about university women. She would know, because she worked as a cleaner at the Faculty of Sciences during the day and as a waitress at the staff club in the evenings; sometimes, too, the lecturers paid her to come in and clean their homes. She said university women kept framed photos of their student days in Ibadan and Britain and America on their shelves. For breakfast, they had eggs that were not cooked well, so that the yolk danced around, and they wore bouncy, straight-hair wigs and maxi-dresses that grazed their ankles. She told a story once about a couple at a cocktail party in the staff club who climbed out of a nice Peugeot 404, the man in an elegant cream suit, the woman in a green dress. Everybody turned to watch them, walking hand in hand, and then the wind blew the woman's wig off her head. She was bald. They used hot combs to straighten their hair, his aunty had said, because they wanted to look like white people, although the combs ended up burning their hair off.
     Ugwu had imagined the bald woman: beautiful, with a nose that stood up, not the sitting-down, flattened noses that he was used to. He imagined quietness, delicacy, the kind of woman whose sneeze, whose laugh and talk, would be soft as the under feathers closest to a chicken's skin. But the women who visited Master, the ones he saw at the supermarket and on the streets, were different. Most of them did wear wigs (a few had their hair plaited or braided with thread), but they were not delicate stalks of grass. They were loud. The loudest was Miss Adebayo. She was not an Igbo woman; Ugwu could tell from her name, even if he had not once run into her and her housegirl at the market and heard them both speaking rapid, incomprehensible Yoruba. She had asked him to wait so that she could give him a ride back to the campus, but he thanked her and said he still had many things left to buy and would take a taxi, although he had finished shopping. He did not want to ride in her car, did not like how her voice rose above Master's in the living room, challenging and arguing. He often fought the urge to raise his own voice from behind the kitchen door and tell her to shut up, especially when she called Master a sophist. He did not know what sophist meant, but he did not like that she called Master that. Nor did he like the way she looked at Master. Even when somebody else was speaking and she was supposed to be focused on that person, her eyes would be on Master. One Saturday night, Okeoma dropped a glass and Ugwu came in to clean up the shards that lay on the floor. He took his time cleaning. The conversation was clearer from here and it was easier to make out what Professor Ezeka said. It was almost impossible to hear the man from the kitchen.
     'We should have a bigger pan-African response to what is happening in the American South really - ' Professor Ezeka said.
     Master cut him short. 'You know, pan-Africanism is fundamentally a European notion.'
     'You are digressing,' Professor Ezeka said, and shook his head in his usual superior manner.
     'Maybe it is a European notion,' Miss Adebayo said, 'but in the bigger picture, we are all one race.'
     'What bigger picture?' Master asked. 'The bigger picture of the white man! Can't you see that we are not all alike except to white eyes?' Master's voice rose easily, Ugwu had noticed, and by his third glass of brandy, he would start to gesture with his glass, leaning forwards until he was seated on the very edge of his armchair. Late at night, after Master was in bed, Ugwu would sit on the same chair and imagine himself speaking swift English, talking to rapt imaginary guests, using words like decolonize and pan-African, moulding his voice after Master's, and he would shift and shift until he too was on the edge of the chair.
     'Of course we are all alike, we all have white oppression in common,' Miss Adebayo said dryly. 'Pan-Africanism is simply the most sensible response.'
     'Of course, of course, but my point is that the only authentic identity for the African is the tribe,' Master said. 'I am Nigerian because a white man created Nigeria and gave me that identity. I am black because the white man constructed black to be as different as possible from his white. But I was Igbo before the white man came.'
     Professor Ezeka snorted and shook his head, thin legs crossed. 'But you became aware that you were Igbo because of the white man. The pan-Igbo idea itself came only in the face of white domination. You must see that tribe as it is today is as colonial a product as nation and race.' Professor Ezeka recrossed his legs.
     'The pan-Igbo idea existed long before the white man!' Master shouted. 'Go and ask the elders in your village about your history.'
     'The problem is that Odenigbo is a hopeless tribalist, we need to keep him quiet,' Miss Adebayo said.
     Then she did what startled Ugwu: she got up laughing and went over to Master and pressed his lips close together. She stood there for what seemed a long time, her hand to his mouth. Ugwu imagined Master's brandy-diluted saliva touching her fingers. He stiffened as he picked up the shattered glass. He wished that Master would not sit there shaking his head as if the whole thing were very funny.
     Miss Adebayo became a threat after that. She began to look more and more like a fruit bat, with her pinched face and cloudy complexion and print dresses that billowed around her body like wings. Ugwu served her drink last and wasted long minutes drying his hands on a dishcloth before he opened the door to let her in. He worried that she would marry Master and bring her Yoruba-speaking housegirl into the house and destroy his herb garden and tell him what he could and could not cook. Until he heard Master and Okeoma talking.
     'She did not look as if she wanted to go home today,' Okeoma said. 'Nwoke m, are you sure you are not planning to do something with her?'
     'Don't talk rubbish.'
     'If you did, nobody in London would know.'
     'Look, look - '
     'I know you're not interested in her like that, but what still puzzles me is what these women see in you.'
     Okeoma laughed and Ugwu was relieved. He did not want Miss Adebayo - or any woman - coming in to intrude and disrupt their lives. Some evenings, when the visitors left early, he would sit on the floor of the living room and listen to Master talk. Master mostly talked about things Ugwu did not understand, as if the brandy made him forget that Ugwu was not one of his visitors. But it didn't matter. All Ugwu needed was the deep voice, the melody of the English-inflected Igbo, the glint of the thick eyeglasses.


He had been with Master for four months when Master told him, 'A special woman is coming for the weekend. Very special. You make sure the house is clean. I'll order the food from the staff club.'
     'But, sah, I can cook,' Ugwu said, with a sad premonition.
     'She's just come back from London, my good man, and she likes her rice a certain way. Fried rice, I think. I'm not sure you could make something suitable.' Master turned to walk away.
     'I can make that, sah,' Ugwu said quickly, although he had no idea what fried rice was. 'Let me make the rice, and you get the chicken from the staff club.'
     'Artful negotiation,' Master said in English. All right, then. You make the rice.'
     'Yes, sah,' Ugwu said. Later, he cleaned the rooms and scrubbed the toilet carefully, as he always did, but Master looked at them and said they were not clean enough and went out and bought another jar of Vim powder and asked, sharply, why Ugwu didn't clean the spaces between the tiles. Ugwu cleaned them again. He scrubbed until sweat crawled down the sides of his face, until his arm ached. And on Saturday, he bristled as he cooked. Master had never complained about his work before. It was this woman's fault, this woman that Master considered too special even for him to cook for. Just come back from London, indeed.
     When the doorbell rang, he muttered a curse under his breath about her stomach swelling from eating faeces. He heard Master's raised voice, excited and childlike, followed by a long silence and he imagined their hug, and her ugly body pressed to Master's. Then he heard her voice. He stood still. He had always thought that Master's English could not be compared to anybody's, not Professor Ezeka, whose English one could hardly hear, or Okeoma, who spoke English as if he were speaking Igbo, with the same cadences and pauses, or Patel, whose English was a faded lilt. Not even the white man Professor Lehman, with his words forced out through his nose, sounded as dignified as Master. Master's English was music, but what Ugwu was hearing now, from this woman, was magic. Here was a superior tongue, a luminous language, the kind of English he heard on Master's radio, rolling out with clipped precision. It reminded him of slicing a yam with a newly sharpened knife, the easy perfection in every slice.
     'Ugwu!' Master called. 'Bring Coke!'
     Ugwu walked out to the living room. She smelt of coconuts. He greeted her, his 'Good afternoon' a mumble, his eyes on the floor.
     'Kedu?' she asked.
     'I'm well, mah.' He still did not look at her. As he uncorked the bottle, she laughed at something Master said. Ugwu was about to pour the cold Coke into her glass when she touched his hand and said, 'Rapuba, don't worry about that.'
     Her hand was lightly moist. 'Yes, mah.'
'Your master has told me how well you take care of him, Ugwu,' she said. Her Igbo words were softer than her English, and he was disappointed at how easily they came out. He wished she would stumble in her Igbo; he had not expected English that perfect to sit beside equally perfect Igbo.
     'Yes, mah,' he mumbled. His eyes were still focused on the floor.
     'What have you cooked us, my good man?' Master asked, as if he did not know. He sounded annoyingly jaunty.
     'I serve now, sah,' Ugwu said, in English, and then wished he had said I am serving now, because it sounded better, because it would impress her more. As he set the table, he kept from glancing at the living room, although he could hear her laughter and Master's voice, with its irritating new timbre.
     He finally looked at her as she and Master sat down at the table. Her oval face was smooth like an egg, the lush colour of rain-drenched earth, and her eyes were large and slanted and she looked like she was not supposed to be walking and talking like everyone else; she should be in a glass case like the one in Master's study, where people could admire her curvy, fleshy body, where she would be preserved untainted. Her hair was long; each of the plaits that hung down to her neck ended in a soft fuzz. She smiled easily; her teeth were the same bright white of her eyes. He did not know how long he stood staring at her until Master said, 'Ugwu usually does a lot better than this. He makes a fantastic stew.'
     'It's quite tasteless, which is better than bad-tasting, of course,' she said, and smiled at Master before turning to Ugwu. 'I'll show you how to cook rice properly, Ugwu, without using so much oil.'
     'Yes, mah,' Ugwu said. He had invented what he imagined was fried rice, frying the rice in groundnut oil, and had half-hoped it would send them both to the toilet in a hurry. Now, though, he wanted to cook a perfect meal, a savoury jollof rice or his special stew with arigbe, to show her how well he could cook. He delayed washing up so that the running water would not drown out her voice. When he served them tea, he took his time rearranging the biscuits on the saucer so that he could linger and listen to her, until Master said, 'That's quite all right, my good man.' Her name was Olanna. But Master said it only once; he mostly called her nkem, my own. They talked about the quarrel between the Sardauna and the premier of the Western Region, and then Master said something about waiting until she moved to Nsukka and how it was only a few weeks away after all. Ugwu held his breath to make sure he had heard clearly. Master was laughing now, saying, 'But we will live here together, nkem, and you can keep the Elias Avenue flat as well.'
     She would move to Nsukka. She would live in this house. Ugwu walked away from the door and stared at the pot on the stove. His life would change. He would learn to cook fried rice and he would have to use less oil and he would take orders from her. He felt sad, and yet his sadness was incomplete; he felt expectant, too, an excitement he did not entirely understand.
     That evening, he was washing Master's linen in the backyard, near the lemon tree, when he looked up from the basin of soapy water and saw her standing by the back door, watching him. At first, he was sure it was his imagination, because the people he thought the most about often appeared to him in visions. He had imaginary conversations with Anulika all the time, and, right after he touched himself at night, Nnesinachi would appear briefly with a mysterious smile on her face. But Olanna was really at the door. She was walking across the yard towards him. She had only a wrapper tied around her chest, and as she walked, he imagined that she was a yellow cashew, shapely and ripe.
     'Mah? You want anything?' he asked. He knew that if he reached out and touched her face, it would feel like butter, the kind Master unwrapped from a paper packet and spread on his bread.
     'Let me help you with that.' She pointed at the bedsheet he was rinsing, and slowly he took the dripping sheet out. She held one end and moved back. 'Turn yours that way,' she said.
     He twisted his end of the sheet to his right while she twisted to her right, and they watched as the water was squeezed out. The sheet was slippery.
     'Thank, mah,' he said.
     She smiled. Her smile made him feel taller. 'Oh, look, those pawpaws are almost ripe. Lotekwa, don't forget to pluck them.'
     There was something polished about her voice, about her; she was like the stone that lay right below a gushing spring, rubbed smooth
by years and years of sparkling water, and looking at her was similar to finding that stone, knowing that there were so few like it. He watched her walk back indoors.
He did not want to share the job of caring for Master with anyone, did not want to disrupt the balance of his life with Master, and yet it was suddenly unbearable to think of not seeing her again. Later, after dinner, he tiptoed to Master's bedroom and rested his ear on the door. She was moaning loudly, sounds that seemed so unlike her, so uncontrolled and stirring and throaty. He stood there for a long time, until the moans stopped, and then he went back to his room.


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