Under the Udala Trees by Chinelo Okparanta

running errands with me, washing clothes and hanging them to dry, chopping wood, coming along with me to fetch kerosene.
    Amina and I bathing together out by the tap, both of us looking into each other’s faces. Amina and I on the mattress we shared, our warm breaths intermingling in the small space between.
    I did not have the presence of mind to say anything but the truth. I looked Mama in the eyes and nodded. “Yes, I still think of her,” I said. And, “Yes, I still think of her in that way.”
    Suddenly Mama was rising from the floor, flailing her hands in the air, shouting about prayer and forgiveness. She pulled me up by the collar of my dress.
    She screamed, “Get on your knees now! I say, get on your knees!”
    I got on my knees as she demanded, but I remained silent, unable to speak. My mind was too busy for words—too busy retracing steps and settling on and mulling over the moment that I had made the gaffe. I stewed over my foolishness, over why I had not been more clever—far less forthcoming—about the answer that I had given.
    â€œPray!” she screamed. “You must ask God for the forgiveness of all your sins, but especially for that one particular sin in you. Did I not just tell you to pray? Why do I not see your lips moving? Why do I not hear any sound coming out of your mouth? Pray, I say! No child of mine will carry those sick, sick desires. The mere existence of them is a terrible disrespect to God and to me!”
    She continued to scream in that fashion, and all the while I could only get myself to look wide-eyed at her. Finally I made to rise up, but she shouted at me to kneel back down. “Kneel!” she screamed, panting as if out of breath.
    I did as I was told.
    She placed her hands on my head, put pressure on it so that I turned my face downward toward the center table.
    â€œOnly your own prayer will save you now. I have prayed all I can for you. Now you must pray for yourself! Only God can save you!”
    I brought my hands to my face, shutting my eyes. I remained in that pose, still lost in my thoughts, still wishing that there were a way that I could go back in time and take back the answer that had led to this blowup.
    â€œPray!” she cried.
    I could have prayed at this point. I
did
want to pray, even, if prayer would be what would calm things down. But my mind could not think up the words to begin. All of her screaming, all of her orders, were instead replaying themselves inside my head.
    Kneel!
    Pray!
    Sinful!
    Terrible disrespect!
    Only God can save you!
    It took me a while to register it when I was no longer hearing her voice. Only then did I open my eyes. Mama was nowhere to be seen.
    I stayed kneeling for some time. I expected that she would soon return, but minutes passed, and when something like half an hour passed, I stood up, walked out the front door, across the veranda, around the house, and back into the kitchen through the back door. No sign of Mama.
    I walked the path that led to the shop. The gate of the store was fastened with a metal chain. I knew that Mama could not be there.
    I returned to the bungalow. I sat back on the floor where she had left me and waited.
    Something like an hour went by.
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    The rattling came from the direction of the front door. The jingling of keys, the turning of the knob, smacks and whacks, objects bumping into the wall.
    Mama entered with a decanter made of clay in her hand. It was a reddish flask with a dull finish, hand-painted in such a way that the red coloring appeared to drip in spots, something like trickling blood.
    She approached until she towered above me. She got down on her knees. A scent of incense floated out of her. Her voice was weak, even a little apologetic, as she said: “I’ve been thinking. It’s not you.”
    My head snapped up in her direction.
    She continued. “No, it’s not you at all. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s the devil