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“I noticed you were not looking very well,” she said in Ibo, “so I brought you some tablets of Avomine.” She gave him an envelope with half a dozen white tablets in it. “Take two before you go to bed.”
“Thank you very much. It’s so kind of you.” Obi was completely overwhelmed and all the coldness and indifference he had rehearsed deserted him. “But,” he stammered, “am I not depriving you of er …”
“Oh, no. I’ve got enough for all the passengers, that’s the advantage of having a nurse on board.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve just given some to Mrs. Wright and Mr. Macmillan. Good night, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
All night Obi rolled from one edge of the bed to the other in sympathy with the fitful progress of the little ship groaning and creaking in the darkness. He could neither sleep nor keep awake. But somehow he was able to think about Clara most of the night, a few seconds at a time. He had taken a firm decision not to show any interest in her. And yet when he had opened the door and seen her, his joy and confusion must have been very plain. And she had treated him just like another patient. “I have enough for all the passengers,” she had said. “I gave some to Mr. Macmillan and Mrs. Wright.” But then she had spoken in Ibo, for the first time, as if to say, “We belong together: we speak the same language.” And she had appeared to show some concern.
He was up very early next morning, feeling a little better but not yet really well. The crew had already washed the deck and he almost slipped on the wet wood. He took up his favorite position at the rails. Then he heard a woman’s light footsteps, turned round, and saw it was Clara.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Good morning,” she said, and made to pass.
“Thank you for the tablets,” he said in Ibo.
“Did they make you feel better?” she asked in English.
“Yes, very much.”
“I am glad,” she said, and passed.
Obi leaned again on the rail to watch the restless sea, which now looked like a wilderness, rock-sharp, angular and mobile. For the first time since they had left Liverpool, the sea became really blue; a plumbless blue set off by the gleaming white tops of countless wavelets clashing and breaking against each other. He heard someone treading heavily and briskly and then fall. It was Macmillan.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” the other said, laughing foolishly and dusting the wet seat of his trousers.
“I very nearly fell myself,” said Obi.
“Look out, Miss Okeke,” said Macmillan as Clara came round again. “The deck is very treacherous and I’ve just fallen.” He was still dusting his wet seat.
“The captain said we will reach an island tomorrow,” said Clara.
“Yes, the Madeiras,” said Macmillan. “Tomorrow evening, I think.”
“And about time, too,” said Obi.
“Don’t you like the sea?”
“Yes, but after five days I want a change.” Obi Okonkwo and John Macmillan suddenly became friends—from the minute Macmillan fell on the wet deck. They were soon playing ping-pong together and standing each other drinks.
“What will you have, Mr. Okonkwo?” asked Macmillan.
“Beer, please. It’s getting rather warm.” He drew his thumb across his face and flicked the sweat away.
“Isn’t it?” said Macmillan, blowing into his chest. “What’s your first name, by the way? Mine’s John.”
“Obi is mine.”
“Obi, that’s a fine name. What does it mean? I’m told that all African names mean something.”
“Well, I don’t know about African names—Ibo names, yes. They are often long sentences. Like that prophet in the Bible who called his son The Remnant Shall Return.”
“What did you read in London?”
“English. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. And how old are you? Excuse my being so inquisitive.”
