Free Under the Udala Trees by Chinelo Okparanta

around in order to further examine the place. On the ground not far from her, shards of glass.
    She screamed some more.
    â€œMadam,” the woman next to her said in a mollifying voice. “Madam.”
    She turned to look at the woman. She wanted to explain that she had come so far only to find things just as bad as where she had come from. “I can’t stay here either,” she said. She shook her head and body so erratically that the woman had to hold her to calm her down. Several men prepared to move the corpse. Who had he been? people asked in hushed tones. But they did not stay long questioning. The men removed the body with the resignation and stale sorrow of people who had confronted death far too many times.
    One of the men began picking up the shards of glass.
    The woman comforting her recognized her then. “Aren’t you Adaora of the late Kenneth and Flora Amaechi?”
    Mama nodded.
    The woman cried with excitement. “Welcome, Adaora,” she said.
“Nno!”
    â€œThis is no home to return—” Mama was saying.
    The woman interrupted, saying, “Not to worry. Your father’s land greets you. I tell you, don’t worry. All will be well again. Together we will fix up the place. One person alone cannot move an elephant, but an entire village, that is a different story.”
    â€œI can’t stay here,” Mama shouted. “Just how am I to stay here?” But deep inside she knew already that she would stay. Because if not, where else was there to go? And anyway, she could not continue to run forever.
    Â 
    So it was that she remained in Aba. The villagers helped her rebuild the bungalow, its roof, its windows, its doors. They painted its walls ivory. They cut the overgrown grass with their machetes, and Mama irrigated the land with jerry cans full of water. For camouflage, they covered the place with palm fronds. Inside, they swept and washed the tile floors.
    It was they who helped her plant a garden and trees in her front yard after the war ended. Another guava tree and an orange tree. A mango tree and a pawpaw tree. Pineapples, their crowns sticking up in spikes above the surface of the earth.
    It was they who helped to put up the four walls of the little shop that stood in front of the bungalow, just behind the compound’s gate.
    All of this had taken some time. “Which is why I took so long to come for you,” Mama says, like a defense, each time she tells the story. “I had not forgotten you. Things were very difficult for a long time.”
    It was a small bungalow with a large parlor and two bedrooms, one of which Mama had prepared for me. The other room was hers.
    Â 
    The first week I was back with Mama, she did not bother speaking to me. Every morning, I came out of my room, took my morning bath, and got dressed. I walked to the kitchen, found myself some food to eat, and went back to my room. For lunch and dinner I came back out. Each time I came out, she was not there. She either was already in the shop or doing something else around the house.
    Nearly a full week passed and not a word between Mama and me.
    Finally, when that first week came to an end, I found her in the kitchen as I entered to look for breakfast. She was wearing a black gown, as if in mourning. She also had a black cloth tied around her head.
    I stopped at the kitchen doorway and fought a mental battle over whether to stay or leave. The thought occurred to me that whatever I decided to do, I must do it respectfully, which essentially meant that, whatever I did, I must first greet her.
    â€œMama, good morning,” I said.
    There was the kitchen table along with its two chairs where we should have already been sharing our meals. But the whole week, if we had not so much as spoken, then we had certainly not eaten together, so we had yet to sit at the table together.
    This particular morning, she must have made it a point to be there waiting for me. She was