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Olanna laughed. “I hope so too. We will start cleaning the room in time. I want it to be spotless for her.”

“It will be spotless, mah, don’t worry.” Ugwu liked Aunty Arize. He remembered her wine-carrying ceremony in Umunnachi about three years ago, how plump and bubbly she had been and how he had drunk so much palm wine that he had nearly dropped the infant Baby.

“I’m going to Kano on Monday to pick her up and take her shopping in Lagos,” Olanna said. “I’ll take Baby. We’ll pack that blue dress Arize made for her.”

“The pink one is better, mah. The blue one is too tight.”

“That’s true.” Olanna picked up a plastic duck and threw it back into the tub, and Baby squealed and submerged it in the water.

“Nkem!” Master called out. “O mego! It has happened!”

Olanna hurried to the living room, Ugwu close behind.

Master was standing by the radio. The television was on but the volume was off so that the dancing people looked as if they were swaying drunkenly. “There’s been a coup,” Master said, and gestured to the radio. “Major Nzeogwu is speaking from Kaduna.”

The voice on the radio was youthful, eager, confident.

The Constitution is suspended and the regional government and elected assemblies are hereby dissolved. My dear countrymen, the aim of the Revolutionary Council is to establish a nation free from corruption and internal strife. Our enemies are the political profiteers, the swindlers, the men in high and low places that seek bribes and demand ten percent, those that seek to keep the country divided permanently so that they can remain in office, the tribalists, the nepotists, those that make the country look big for nothing before international circles, those that have corrupted our society.

Olanna ran to the telephone. “What is happening in Lagos? Did they say what is happening in Lagos?”

“Your parents are fine, nkem. Civilians are safe.”

Olanna was dialing. “Operator? Operator?” She put the phone down and picked it up again. “It isn’t going through.”

Master gently took the phone from her. “I’m sure they are fine. The lines will come back up soon. It’s just for security.”

On the radio, the voice had become firmer.

I assure all foreigners that their rights will continue to be respected. We promise every law-abiding citizen the freedom from all forms of oppression, freedom from general inefficiency, and freedom to live and strive in every field of human endeavor. We promise that you will no more be ashamed to say that you are a Nigerian.

“Mummy Ola!” Baby called from the bathroom. “Mummy Ola!”

Ugwu went back to the bathroom and dried Baby with a towel and then hugged her, blew against her neck. She smelled deliciously of Pears baby soap.

“Baby chicken!” he said, tickling her. Her braids were wet, the ends tightened in a curly kink, and Ugwu smoothed them and marveled again at how much she looked like her father; his people would say that Master had spit this child out.

“More tickles!” Baby said, laughing. Her chubby face was slick with moisture.

“Baby baby chicken,” Ugwu murmured, in the singsong way that always amused her.

Baby laughed and, from the living room, Ugwu heard Olanna say, “Oh, God, what did he say? What did he say?”

He was serving Baby’s porridge when the deputy president spoke briefly on the radio, the voice understated, as if he were exhausted from the effort of saying, “The government is handing over to the military.”

There were more announcements later—the prime minister was missing, Nigeria was now a federal military government, the premiers of the North and West were missing—but Ugwu was not sure who spoke and on what station because Master sat next to the radio, turning the knob quickly, stopping, listening, turning, stopping. He had removed his glasses and looked more vulnerable with his eyes sunken deep in his face. He did not put them back on until the guests arrived. There were more today than usual, and Ugwu brought dining chairs to the living room to seat them all. Their voices were urgent and excited, each person barely waiting for the last to finish speaking.

“This is the end of corruption! This is what we have needed to happen since that general strike,” one guest said. Ugwu did not remember his name, but he tended to eat up all the chin-chin right after it was served, so Ugwu had taken to placing the tray as far away from him as possible. The man had large hands; a few generous handfuls from the tray and all was lost.

“Those majors are true heroes!” Okeoma said, and raised an arm.

There was excitement in their voices even when they talked about the people who were killed.

“They said the Sardauna hid behind his wives.”

“They said the finance minister shit in his trousers before they shot him.”

Some guests chuckled and so did Ugwu, until he heard Olanna say, “I knew Okonji. He was a friend of my father’s.” She sounded subdued.