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“What has happened has happened,” Okeoma said. “You must be strong.”

A short and shabby silence fell across the room.

“Julius brought some fresh palm wine,” Odenigbo said finally. “You know, they mix in too much water these days, but this one is very good.”

“I’ll drink that later. Where is that White Horse whisky you save for special occasions?”

“It is almost finished.”

“Then I will finish it,” Okeoma said.

Odenigbo brought the bottle and they sat in the living room, the radio turned low and the aroma of Ugwu’s soup in the air.

“My commander drinks this like water,” Okeoma said, and shook the bottle to see how much was left.

“And how is he, your commander, the white-man mercenary?” Odenigbo asked.

Okeoma darted an apologetic glance at Olanna before he said, “He throws girls on their backs in the open where the men can see him and does them, all the time holding his bag of money in one hand.” Okeoma drank from the bottle and scrunched up his face for a moment. “We could easily have retaken Enugu if the man only listened, but he thinks he knows more about our own land than we do. He has started commandeering relief cars. He threatened His Excellency last week that he would leave if he doesn’t get his balance.”

Okeoma took another swig from the bottle.

“Two days ago I went out in mufti and a ranger stopped me on the road and accused me of deserting. I warned him never to try that again or I would show him why we commandos are different from regular soldiers. I heard him laughing as I walked away. Imagine that! Before, he would never have dared to laugh at a commando. If we don’t reorganize soon we will lose our credibility.”

“Why should white people be paid to fight our war anyway?” Odenigbo leaned back on the chair. “There are many of us who can truly fight because we are willing to give ourselves for Biafra.”

Olanna stood up. “Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m sorry our soup has no meat, Okeoma.”

“I’m sorry our soup has no meat,” Okeoma mimicked. “Does this place look like a meat shop? I did not come looking for meat.”

Ugwu placed the plates of garri on the table.

“Please remove your grenade while we eat, Okeoma,” Olanna said.

He dislodged it from his waist and placed it in the corner. They ate in silence for a while, molding their garri into balls, dipping in soup, swallowing.

“What is that scar?” Olanna asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Okeoma said, and ran his hand lightly over it. “It looks more serious than it is.”

“You should join the Biafran Writers League,” she said. “You should be one of those going abroad to publicize our cause.”

Okeoma started to shake his head while Olanna was still speaking. “I am a soldier,” he said.

“Do you still write?” Olanna asked.

He shook his head again.

“Do you have a poem for us, though? From your head?” she asked, and sounded desperate even to herself.

Okeoma swallowed a ball of garri, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “No,” he said. He turned to Odenigbo. “Did you hear what our shore batteries did to the vandals in the Onitsha sector?”

After lunch, Odenigbo went into the bedroom. Okeoma finished the whisky and then drank glass after glass of palm wine and fell asleep in the living room chair. His breathing was labored; he mumbled and twice flayed his arms as if to shake some invisible attackers off. Olanna patted his shoulder to wake him up.

“Kunie. Come and lie down inside,” she said.

He opened reddened, bewildered eyes. “No, no, I’m really not sleeping.”

“Look at you. You were gone.”