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“Okoromadu sent me to you,” a young woman said beside her, and Olanna almost jumped. The woman slid a bag into her hand and walked back into the compound. “Thank him for me,” Olanna called out. If the woman heard, she did not turn. The weight of the bag felt reassuring as she waited for Mrs. Muokelu; later, as she watched Baby eat until only the palm oil grease was left on the plate, she wondered how Baby could stand the awful plastic taste of the dried egg yolk.

The next time Olanna went to the relief center, Okoromadu was talking to the crowd at the gate. Some women held rolled-up mats under their arms; they had spent the night outside the gates.

“We have nothing for you today. The lorry carrying our supplies from Awomama was hijacked on the road,” he said, in the measured tone of a politician addressing his supporters. Olanna watched him. He enjoyed this, the power that came with knowing whether or not a group of people would eat. “We have military escorts, but it is soldiers who are hijacking us. They set up roadblocks and take everything from the lorry; they even beat the drivers. Come on Monday, and maybe we will be open.”

A woman walked briskly up to him and thrust her baby boy into his arms. “Then take him! Feed him until you open again!” She began to walk away. The baby was thin, jaundiced, squalling.

“Bia nwanyi! Come back, woman!” Okoromadu was holding the baby with stiff arms, away from his body.

The other women in the crowd began to chide the mother—Are you throwing your child away? Ujo anaghi atu gi? Are you walking in God’s face?—but it was Mrs. Muokelu who went over and took the baby from Okoromadu and placed it back in the mother’s arms.

“Take your child,” she said. “It is not his fault that there is no food today.”

The crowd dispersed. Olanna and Mrs. Muokelu walked slowly.

“Who knows if it is true that soldiers really hijacked their lorry?” Mrs. Muokelu said. “Who knows how much they have kept for themselves to sell? We never have salt here because they keep all the salt to trade.”

Olanna was thinking of the way that Mrs. Muokelu had returned the baby to the mother. “You remind me of my sister,” she said.

“How?”

“She’s very strong. She’s not afraid.”

“She was smoking in that picture you showed me. Like a common prostitute.”

Olanna stopped and stared at Mrs. Muokelu.

“I am not saying she is a prostitute,” Mrs. Muokelu said hastily. “I am only saying that it is not good that she smokes because women who smoke are prostitutes.”

Olanna looked at her and saw a malevolence in the beard and hairy arms. She walked faster, silent, ahead of Mrs. Muokelu, and did not say goodbye before she turned in to her street. Baby was sitting outside with Ugwu.

“Mummy Ola!”

Olanna hugged her, smoothed her hair. Baby was holding her hand, looking up at her. “Did you bring egg yolk, Mummy Ola?”

“No, my baby. But I will bring some soon,” she said.

“Good afternoon, mah. You didn’t bring anything?” Ugwu asked.

“Can’t you see that my basket is empty?” Olanna snapped. “Are you blind?”

On Monday, she went alone to the relief center. Mrs. Muokelu did not come by to call her before dawn and was not there among the crowd. The gate was locked, the compound empty and she waited around for an hour until the crowd began to disperse. On Tuesday, the gate was locked. On Wednesday, there was a new padlock on the gate. It was not until Saturday that the gate swung open and Olanna surprised herself by how easily she joined in the inward rush of the crowd, how she moved nimbly from line to line, dodged the swinging canes of the militia, pushed back when somebody pushed her. She was leaving with small bags of cornmeal and egg yolk and two pieces of stockfish when Okoromadu arrived.

He waved. “Beautiful woman. Nwanyi oma!” he said. He still did not know her name. He came over and slipped a tin of corned beef into her basket and then hurried away as if he had done nothing. Olanna looked down at the long red tin and nearly burst out laughing from sheer unexpected pleasure. She brought it out, examined it, ran a hand over the cold metal, and looked up to find a shell-shocked soldier watching her. His stare was blunt; it did not care to disguise itself. She put the corned beef back into her basket and covered it with a bag. She was pleased Mrs. Muokelu was not with her, so she would not have to share it. She would ask Ugwu to make a stew with it. She would save some to make sandwiches and she and Odenigbo and Baby would have an English-style tea with corned beef sandwiches.

The shell-shocked soldier followed her out of the gate. She quickened her pace on the dusty stretch that led to the main road, but five of them, all in tattered army uniforms, soon surrounded her. They babbled and gestured toward her basket, their movements disjointed, their tones raised, and Olanna made out some of the words. “Aunty!” “Sister!” “Bring am now!” “Hungry go kill all of us!”

Olanna clutched her basket tight. A hot childish urge to cry rose in her. “Go away! Come on, go away!”

They looked surprised at her outburst and for a moment they were still. Then they began to come closer, all together, as if some internal voice were directing them. They were bearing down on her. They could do anything; there was something desperately lawless about them and their noise-deadened brains. Olanna’s fear came with rage, a fierce and emboldening rage, and she imagined fighting them, strangling them, killing them. The corned beef was hers. Hers. She moved a few steps back. In a flash, done so quickly that she did not realize it until afterward, the one wearing a blue beret grasped her basket, took the tin of corned beef, and ran off. Others followed. The last stood there watching her, his slack mouth hanging open, before he turned to run too, but in the opposite direction, away from the others. The basket lay on the ground. Olanna stood still and cried silently because the corned beef had never been hers. Then she picked up the basket, dusted some sand from her bag of cornmeal, and walked home.

Olanna and Mrs. Muokelu had avoided each other in school for almost two weeks and so the afternoon Olanna came home and saw Mrs. Muokelu sitting outside with a metal bucket full of gray wood ash, she was surprised.

Mrs. Muokelu stood up. “I came to teach you how to make soap. Do you know how much they are selling common bar soap now?”

Olanna looked at the threadbare cotton boubou plastered with His Excellency’s glowering face and realized that this unsolicited lesson was an apology. She took the bucket of ash. She led the way to the backyard, and after Mrs. Muokelu had explained and demonstrated how to make soap she stowed the ash near the pile of cement blocks.

Later, Odenigbo shook his head when she told him about it. They were under the thatch awning of the veranda, on a wood bench placed against the wall.