“God is in control, my precious,” her mother said. “Thank God for this your friend. God will bless her and her mother.”
“It’s him. A boy.”
“Oh.” Her mother paused. “Please thank them. God bless them. We will take the first bus tomorrow morning to Nsukka.”
Ifemelu remembered a nurse cheerfully shaving her pubic hair, the rough scratch of the razor blade, the smell of antiseptic. Then there was a blankness, an erasure of her mind, and when she emerged from it, groggy and still swaying on the edge of memory, she heard her parents talking to Obinze’s mother. Her mother was holding her hand. Later, Obinze’s mother would ask them to stay in her house, there was no point wasting money on a hotel. “Ifemelu is like a daughter to me,” she said.
Before they returned to Lagos, her father said, with that intimidated awe he had in the face of the well-educated, “She has BA London First Class.” And her mother said, “Very respectful boy, that Obinze. He has good home training. And their hometown is not far from us.”
OBINZE’S MOTHER WAITED a few days, perhaps for Ifemelu to regain her strength, before she called them and asked them to sit down and turn the TV off.
“Obinze and Ifemelu, people make mistakes, but some mistakes can be avoided.”
Obinze remained silent. Ifemelu said, “Yes, Aunty.”
“You must always use a condom. If you want to be irresponsible, then wait until you are no longer in my care.” Her tone had hardened, become censorious. “If you make the choice to be sexually active, then you must make the choice to protect yourself. Obinze, you should take your pocket money and buy condoms. Ifemelu, you too. It is not my concern if you are embarrassed. You should go into the pharmacy and buy them. You should never ever let the boy be in charge of your own protection. If he does not want to use it, then he does not care enough about you and you should not be there. Obinze, you may not be the person who will get pregnant, but if it happens it will change your entire life and you cannot undo it. And please, both of you, keep it between both of you. Diseases are everywhere. AIDS is real.”
They were silent.
“Did you hear me?” Obinze’s mother asked.
“Yes, Aunty,” Ifemelu said.
“Obinze?” his mother said.
“Mummy, I’ve heard you,” Obinze said, adding, sharply, “I’m not a small boy!” Then he got up and stalked out of the room.
CHAPTER 8
Strikes now were common. In the newspapers, university lecturers listed their complaints, the agreements that were trampled in the dust by government men whose own children were schooling abroad. Campuses were emptied, classrooms drained of life. Students hoped for short strikes, because they could not hope to have no strike at all. Everyone was talking about leaving. Even Emenike had left for England. Nobody knew how he managed to get a visa. “So he didn’t even tell you?” Ifemelu asked Obinze, and Obinze said, “You know how Emenike is.” Ranyinudo, who had a cousin in America, applied for a visa but was rejected at the embassy by a black American who she said had a cold and was more interested in blowing his nose than in looking at her documents. Sister Ibinabo started the Student Visa Miracle Vigil on Fridays, a gathering of young people, each one holding out an envelope with a visa application form, on which Sister Ibinabo laid a hand of blessing. One girl, already in her final year at the University of Ife, got an American visa the first time she tried, and gave a tearful, excited testimony in church. “Even if I have to start from the beginning in America, at least I know when I will graduate,” she said.
One day, Aunty Uju called. She no longer called frequently; before, she would call Ranyinudo’s house if Ifemelu was in Lagos, or Obinze’s house if Ifemelu was at school. But her calls had dried up. She was working three jobs, not yet qualified to practice medicine in America. She talked about the exams she had to take, various steps meaning various things that Ifemelu did not understand. Whenever Ifemelu’s mother suggested asking Aunty Uju to send them something from America—multivitamins, shoes—Ifemelu’s father would say no, they had to let Uju find her feet first, and her mother would say, a hint of slyness in her smile, that four years was long enough to find one’s feet.
“Ifem, kedu?” Aunty Uju asked. “I thought you would be in Nsukka. I just called Obinze’s house.”
“We’re on strike.”
“Ahn-ahn! The strike hasn’t ended?”
“No, that last one ended, we went back to school and then they started another one.”
“What is this kind of nonsense?” Aunty Uju said. “Honestly, you should come and study here, I am sure you can easily get a scholarship. And you can help me take care of Dike. I’m telling you, the small money I make is all going to his babysitter. And by God’s grace, by the time you come, I will have passed all my exams and started my residency.” Aunty Uju sounded enthusiastic but vague; until she voiced it, she had not given the idea much thought.
Ifemelu might have left it at that, a formless idea floated but allowed to sink again, if not for Obinze. “You should do it, Ifem,” he said. “You have nothing to lose. Take the SATs and try for a scholarship. Ginika can help you apply to schools. Aunty Uju is there so at least you have a foundation to start with. I wish I could do the same, but I can’t just get up and go. It’s better for me to finish my first degree and then come to America for graduate school. International students can get funding and financial aid for graduate school.”
Ifemelu did not quite grasp what it all meant, but it sounded correct because it came from him, the America expert, who so easily said “graduate school” instead of “postgraduate school.” And so she began to dream. She saw herself in a house from The Cosby Show, in a school with students holding notebooks miraculously free of wear and crease. She took the SATs at a Lagos center, packed with thousands of people, all bristling with their own American ambitions. Ginika, who had just graduated from college, applied to schools on her behalf, calling to say, “I just wanted you to know I’m focusing on the Philadelphia area because I went here,” as though Ifemelu knew where Philadelphia was. To her, America was America.
The strike ended. Ifemelu returned to Nsukka, eased back into campus life, and from time to time, she dreamed of America. When Aunty Uju called to say that there were acceptance letters and a scholarship offer, she stopped dreaming. She was too afraid to hope, now that it seemed possible.
“Make small-small braids that will last long, it’s very expensive to make hair here,” Aunty Uju told her.
“Aunty, let me get the visa first!” Ifemelu said.
She applied for a visa, convinced that a rude American would reject her application, it was what happened so often, after all, but the gray-haired woman wearing a St. Vincent de Paul pin on her lapel smiled at her and said, “Pick up your visa in two days. Good luck with your studies.”
On the afternoon that she picked up her passport, the pale-toned visa on the second page, she organized that triumphant ritual that signaled the start of a new life overseas: the division of personal property among friends. Ranyinudo, Priye, and Tochi were in her bedroom, drinking Coke, her clothes in a pile on the bed, and the first thing they all reached for was her orange dress, her favorite dress, a gift from Aunty Uju; the A-line flair and neck-to-hem zipper had always made her feel both glamorous and dangerous. It makes things easy for me, Obinze would say, before he slowly began to unzip it. She wanted to keep the dress, but Ranyinudo said, “Ifem, you know you’ll have any kind of dress you want in America and next time we see you, you will be a serious Americanah.”
Her mother said Jesus told her in a dream that Ifemelu would prosper in America, her father pressed a slender envelope into her hand, saying, “I wish I had more,” and she realized, with sadness, that he must have borrowed it. In the face of the enthusiasim of others, she suddenly felt flaccid and afraid.
“Maybe I should stay and finish here,” she told Obinze.
“Ifem, no, you should go. Besides, you don’t even like geology. You can study something else in America.”
“But the scholarship is partial. Where will I find the money to pay the balance? I can’t work with a student visa.”
“You can do work-study at school. You’ll find a way. Seventy-five percent off your tuition is a big deal.”
She nodded, riding the wave of his faith. She visited his mother to say goodbye.
“Nigeria is chasing away its best resources,” Obinze’s mother said resignedly, hugging her.
“Aunty, I will miss you. Thank you so much for everything.”
“Stay well, my dear, and do well. Write to us. Make sure you keep in touch.”
Ifemelu nodded, tearful. As she left, already parting the curtain at the front door, Obinze’s mother said, “And make sure you and Obinze have a plan. Have a plan.” Her words, so unexpected and so right, lifted Ifemelu’s spirits. Their plan became this: he would come to America the minute he graduated. He would find a way to get a visa. Perhaps, by then, she would be able to help with his visa.
In the following years, even after she was no longer in touch with him, she would sometimes remember his mother’s words—make sure you and Obinze have a plan—and feel comforted.