you I do some translation? From the French. I am a lecturer in literature, not English literature, mind you, but literatures in English, and my translating is something I do as a hobby. Now translating your name from Igbo to English might be Made-in-Good-Times or Beautifully Made, or what do you think?”
Ifemelu could not think. There was something about the woman that made her want to say intelligent things, but her mind was blank.
“Mummy, she came to greet you, not to translate her name,” Obinze said, with a playful exasperation.
“Do we have a soft drink to offer our guest? Did you bring out the soup from the freezer? Let’s go to the kitchen,” his mother said. She reached out and picked off a piece of lint from his hair, and then hit his head lightly. Their fluid, bantering rapport made Ifemelu uncomfortable. It was free of restraint, free of the fear of consequences; it did not take the familiar shape of a relationship with a parent. They cooked together, his mother stirring the soup, Obinze making the garri, while Ifemelu stood by drinking a Coke. She had offered to help, but his mother had said, “No, my dear, maybe next time,” as though she did not just let anyone help in her kitchen. She was pleasant and direct, even warm, but there was a privacy about her, a reluctance to bare herself completely to the world, the same quality as Obinze. Shehad taught her son the ability to be, even in the middle of a crowd, somehow comfortably inside himself.
“What are your favorite novels, Ifemelunamma?” his mother asked. “You know Obinze will only read American books? I hope you’re not that foolish.”
“Mummy, you’re just trying to force me to like this book.” He gestured to the book on the kitchen table, Graham Greene’s
The Heart of the Matter
. “My mother reads this book twice a year. I don’t know why,” he said to Ifemelu.
“It is a wise book. The human stories that matter are those that endure. The American books you read are lightweights.” She turned to Ifemelu. “This boy is too besotted with America.”
“I read American books because America is the future, Mummy. And remember that your husband was educated there.”
“That was when only dullards went to school in America. American universities were considered to be at the same level as British secondary schools then. I did a lot of brushing-up on that man after I married him.”
“Even though you left your things in his flat so that his other girlfriends would stay away?”
“I’ve told you not to pay any attention to your uncle’s false stories.”
Ifemelu stood there mesmerized. Obinze’s mother, her beautiful face, her air of sophistication, her wearing a white apron in the kitchen, was not like any other mother Ifemelu knew. Here, her father would seem crass, with his unnecessary big words, and her mother provincial and small.
“You can wash your hands at the sink,” Obinze’s mother told her. “I think the water is still running.”
They sat at the dining table, eating garri and soup, Ifemelu trying hard to be, as Aunty Uju had said, “herself,” although she was no longer sure what “herself” was. She felt undeserving, unable to sink with Obinze and his mother into their atmosphere. “The soup is very sweet, ma,” she said politely. “Oh, Obinze cooked it,” his mother said. “Didn’t he tell you that he cooks?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think he could make soup, ma,” Ifemelu said. Obinze was smirking.
“Do you cook at home?” his mother asked.
Ifemelu wanted to lie, to say that she cooked and loved cooking, but she remembered Aunty Uju’s words. “No, ma,” she said. “I don’t like cooking. I can eat Indomie noodles day and night.”
His mother laughed, as though charmed by the honesty, and when she laughed, she looked like a softer-faced Obinze. Ifemelu ate her food slowly, thinking how much she wanted to remain there with them, in their rapture, forever.
THEIR FLAT SMELLED of
Ifemelu could not think. There was something about the woman that made her want to say intelligent things, but her mind was blank.
“Mummy, she came to greet you, not to translate her name,” Obinze said, with a playful exasperation.
“Do we have a soft drink to offer our guest? Did you bring out the soup from the freezer? Let’s go to the kitchen,” his mother said. She reached out and picked off a piece of lint from his hair, and then hit his head lightly. Their fluid, bantering rapport made Ifemelu uncomfortable. It was free of restraint, free of the fear of consequences; it did not take the familiar shape of a relationship with a parent. They cooked together, his mother stirring the soup, Obinze making the garri, while Ifemelu stood by drinking a Coke. She had offered to help, but his mother had said, “No, my dear, maybe next time,” as though she did not just let anyone help in her kitchen. She was pleasant and direct, even warm, but there was a privacy about her, a reluctance to bare herself completely to the world, the same quality as Obinze. Shehad taught her son the ability to be, even in the middle of a crowd, somehow comfortably inside himself.
“What are your favorite novels, Ifemelunamma?” his mother asked. “You know Obinze will only read American books? I hope you’re not that foolish.”
“Mummy, you’re just trying to force me to like this book.” He gestured to the book on the kitchen table, Graham Greene’s
The Heart of the Matter
. “My mother reads this book twice a year. I don’t know why,” he said to Ifemelu.
“It is a wise book. The human stories that matter are those that endure. The American books you read are lightweights.” She turned to Ifemelu. “This boy is too besotted with America.”
“I read American books because America is the future, Mummy. And remember that your husband was educated there.”
“That was when only dullards went to school in America. American universities were considered to be at the same level as British secondary schools then. I did a lot of brushing-up on that man after I married him.”
“Even though you left your things in his flat so that his other girlfriends would stay away?”
“I’ve told you not to pay any attention to your uncle’s false stories.”
Ifemelu stood there mesmerized. Obinze’s mother, her beautiful face, her air of sophistication, her wearing a white apron in the kitchen, was not like any other mother Ifemelu knew. Here, her father would seem crass, with his unnecessary big words, and her mother provincial and small.
“You can wash your hands at the sink,” Obinze’s mother told her. “I think the water is still running.”
They sat at the dining table, eating garri and soup, Ifemelu trying hard to be, as Aunty Uju had said, “herself,” although she was no longer sure what “herself” was. She felt undeserving, unable to sink with Obinze and his mother into their atmosphere. “The soup is very sweet, ma,” she said politely. “Oh, Obinze cooked it,” his mother said. “Didn’t he tell you that he cooks?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think he could make soup, ma,” Ifemelu said. Obinze was smirking.
“Do you cook at home?” his mother asked.
Ifemelu wanted to lie, to say that she cooked and loved cooking, but she remembered Aunty Uju’s words. “No, ma,” she said. “I don’t like cooking. I can eat Indomie noodles day and night.”
His mother laughed, as though charmed by the honesty, and when she laughed, she looked like a softer-faced Obinze. Ifemelu ate her food slowly, thinking how much she wanted to remain there with them, in their rapture, forever.
THEIR FLAT SMELLED of
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