Under the Udala Trees by Chinelo Okparanta Page A

causing you to be this way.”
    She placed the items in her hand on the floor by the table.
    â€œ
Ngwa
, get down on your knees,” she said in a far more composed manner than earlier.
    I got down on my knees.
    â€œLower your head and close your eyes,” she said, still calmly.
    I lowered my head, and I closed my eyes.
    She placed her open hands on my head.
    â€œIn the name of God the Almighty, I order you to come out of her,” she said. Her voice was progressively louder each time she repeated it, but still controlled: “In the name of the Almighty God, I order you to leave my child alone.”
    I felt droplets of liquid on my neck and a little on my face.
    Her voice came out piercing, almost like a wail, causing shivers down my back. “
Lagha chi azu! Lagha chi azu!
” she cried.
    The droplets continued to wet the skin on my neck and face and even my arms. I felt lightheaded, as if the blood had drained out of me. She was speaking to the devil, crying for him to turn back and leave me alone. “I order you to leave. I order you to leave her alone.
Lagha chi azu! Lagha chi azu! Asi m gi, Lagha chi azu!
”
    Finally she let out a lengthy sigh of exhaustion. Everything grew quiet. I no longer felt the droplets on me. I opened my eyes slowly. Mama was sitting on the floor by my side, her face tear-stained. Her hands dangled aimlessly at her sides. The decanter lay nearby, in the little space between her one hand and the couch.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” she said, weakly now. Her throat was hoarse.
    I moved closer to her, leaned my head against her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Mama.”
    We stayed quiet.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” she repeated in a thin voice.
    â€œNo, Mama. It’s not anybody’s fault.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “Of course it’s my fault.” She went on to recount that day out on the veranda when I begged to follow her to Aba. Maybe she should have allowed me to go with her, she said. What kind of mother sent her daughter off to be a housegirl for someone else, and for all that time? And beyond that, to send off a child who had just seen her father’s corpse lying in all that blood. To send off a child under those circumstances when she should have done anything to keep her close.
    Up to this moment, I had still been holding a grudge against Mama for abandoning me at the grammar school teacher’s. But now, hearing how much she herself had been thinking about it, how much she was still tormenting herself over it, all my grudge melted away. “Mama,” I said, “you’re not the only person who sent your daughter out to be a housegirl.” I knew of other families who had also kept housegirls. The girls’ parents must have been the ones who sent them to work in that way. I said, “You’re not the only one. There are many others too.”
    She nodded. “It was for your own good,” she said softly.
    I nodded.
    â€œFor your safety, for your well-being.”
    I nodded again.
    â€œHe and his wife were kind to you the entire time?”
    â€œYes, Mama. They were nothing but kind to me.”
    â€œYou know, some people leave just to have the benefit of coming back home.”
    â€œYes, Mama,” I said.
    She placed her palms on my cheeks, held my face tightly. Her hands were wet. The air was stuffy, thick. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “There’s no sin so bad that it can’t be forgiven, no wrongdoing so terrible that it can’t be repented of. You will repent and you will be forgiven by the glory and the power of God.”
    There was silence.
    She said, “You will be cured by the glory and power of God.”
    I remained silent.
    â€œSay it!”
    â€œI will be cured by the glory and power of God.”
    She took the decanter from where it was sitting, tilted it until more water poured into her cupped hand. She sprinkled the water