touching him would heal them of an illness.
When we got home, all the couches and sofas in the living room were full; some people were perched on the side tables. The men and women all rose when Papa came in, and chants of
âOmelora
!â filled the air. Papa went about shaking hands and hugging and saying âMerry Christmasâ and âGod bless you.â Somebody had left the door that led to the backyard open, and the blue-gray firewood smoke that hung heavy in the living room blurred the facial features of the guests. I could hear the wives of the umunna, chattering in the backyard, scooping soup and stew from the huge pots on the fire into bowls that would be taken to serve the people.
âCome and greet the wives of our
umunna
,â Mama said to Jaja and me.
We followed her out to the backyard. The women clapped and hooted when Jaja and I said,
âNno nu.
â Welcome.
They all looked alike, in ill-fitting blouses, threadbare wrappers, and scarves tied around their heads. They all had the same wide smile, the same chalk-colored teeth, the same sundried skin the color and texture of groundnut husks.
â
Nekene
, see the boy that will inherit his fatherâs riches!â one woman said, hooting even more loudly, her mouth shaped like a narrow tunnel.
âIf we did not have the same blood in our veins, I would sell you my daughter,â another said to Jaja. She was squatting near the fire, arranging the firewood underneath the tripod. The others laughed.
âThe girl is a ripe
agbogho
! Very soon a strong young manwill bring us palm wine!â another said. Her dirty wrapper was not knotted properly, and one end trailed in the dirt as she walked, carrying a tray mounded with bits of fried beef.
âGo up and change,â Mama said, holding Jaja and me around the shoulders. âYour aunty and cousins will be here soon.â
Upstairs, Sisi had set eight places at the dining table, with wide plates the color of caramel and matching napkins ironed into crisp triangles. Aunty Ifeoma and her children arrived while I was still changing out of my church clothes. I heard her loud laughter, and it echoed and went on for a while. I did not realize it was my cousinsâ laughter, the sound reflecting their motherâs, until I went out to the living room. Mama, who was still in the pink, heavily sequined wrapper she had worn to church, sat next to Aunty Ifeoma on a couch. Jaja was talking to Amaka and Obiora near the étagère. I went over to join them, starting to pace my breathing so that I would not stutter.
âThatâs a stereo, isnât it? Why donât you play some music? Or are you bored with the stereo, too?â Amaka asked, her placid eyes darting from Jaja to me.
âYes, itâs a stereo,â Jaja said. He did not say that we never played it, that we never even thought to, that all we listened to was the news on Papaâs radio during family time. Amaka went over and pulled out the LP drawer. Obiora joined her.
âNo wonder you donât play the stereo, everything in here is so dull!â she said.
âTheyâre not that dull,â Obiora said, looking through the LPs. He had a habit of pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. Finally he put one on, an Irish church choir singing âO Come All Ye Faithful.â He seemed fascinated bythe stereo player and, as the song played, stood watching it as if he would learn the secrets of its chrome entrails by staring hard at it.
Chima came into the room. âThe toilet here is so nice, Mommy. It has big mirrors and creams in glass bottles.â
âI hope you didnât break anything,â Aunty Ifeoma said.
âI didnât,â Chima said. âCan we put the TV on?â
âNo,â Aunty Ifeoma said. âYour Uncle Eugene is coming up soon so we can have lunch.â
Sisi came into the room, smelling of food and spices, to tell Mama that the
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham