Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past…
The casket is lowered into the ground just as the church bells strike one.
—
Back in Port Harcourt later that evening, Ajie reaches for the school bag in the wardrobe. He wonders how it is possible to have Paul’s school bag returned to them after such a long time. In a place where things vanish without explanation, where all the wrong things are always waiting to happen, the miracle of having Paul’s bag in his hand now makes him wonder. He holds himself back from examining or handling the contents. He puts the bag in the wardrobe.
Bibi is sitting on the veranda with Dotun. They are talking about Braithwaite Memorial Hospital, where Bibi will be starting her residency program. They are both moving down from Ibadan, where they studied, to Port Harcourt. Ma is in the back garden, reading aloud to herself from the lesson for next Sunday school. As Ajie steps into the parlor, he picks up some of the words Ma is reading. He tries to follow her sentences, but they dance on the limits of his mind.
Ma’s typed manuscripts are stacked on the dining table. Ferns and Faunas of the Orashi Plain. He thinks of the specimens in the book: Even if they become extinct, at least a memory of them has been preserved and can be called to life any day. He wonders if there is a bigger volume somewhere, a roll of every living thing, past and present, gathered, standing in their cohort: fungi, plants, animals, in families, genera, species, and variants. He is still thinking about this when Ma’s voice comes again from the back of the house. “Bibi,” she calls out. Ma is looking toward the house. She has taken off her reading glasses. “It’s evening already, Bibi. Please put something on the fire. We have to eat.”
Ajie reaches for the light switch on the parlor wall and turns it on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sodienye Kurubo, my friend and my most exacting critic, who read this book first, in draft, and many times over; for his sharp eyes and good heart, for the angry-red notes that helped this book become what it is. Thank you, Sodi. How I for do?
For their love and support, for honoring my need for space, for never sharing their worry about me squandering time, I thank my family: Osa umu ka Edi-nwa-Ile, especially Dadu Fearn; I salute all the Iles of Obagi (Nde guzo a guzo!); Georgia and Joshua Fearn, for making me laugh.
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to many friends who read drafts, gave keys to their flats, forgave when I didn’t return calls or respond to e-mails and text messages, bought my round of drinks while I looked away: Adiela Orike (dear cousin-brother, for giving me my first home away from home), Jonah Dienye, Bobby Obi, Sylvia Ofili, Nnachi Nnachi, Yemi Akinwale (that Yoruba boy), Owukori Akuyibo, Mfoniso Udosen, Teinane Okpokiti, Abiodun Okunola, Bassey Essien, Philip Iyayi, Niyi Famuboni, Naakuu Paul-Birabi (self-declared “Afropolitan with Anglo-Saxon work ethic”—ha!), Gérard Tetegan, Boma Koko, Biebele Okpokiri, and Ilami Onyekwum, wherever she may be.
I thank Chimamanda Adichie for her matchless generosity of spirit; Ike Anya, waterer of seed; John Bond, for the kindness of that e-mail; Dominic Reilly, for speaking with me in Dothraki, and for much more.
Thank you to my agent, Sarah Chalfant, who makes the world seem easier than it really is; to Alba Ziegler-Bailey and Jacqueline Ko. I am grateful to Tim Duggan, my judicious editor; to Thomas Gebremedhin and everyone at Tim Duggan Books.