Chigozie Obioma

Solomon did not complete his sentence; he’d understood. For the seed of what Ikenna had now begun to act out—a lack of interest in fishing—was sown the previous week. He’d had to be persuaded to come with us to the river that day. So, when he said: “I want to go and study. I’m a student, not a fisherman,” no one questioned him any further.

Why are you all going now?” Solomon said. “Is it because of the priest or because of that day you met Abulu? Did I not ask you not to wait? Did I not tell you not to listen to him? Did I not tell you that he was just an evil, crazy, madman?”

But none of us said a word in reply, nor did we turn to him. We simply walked on, Ikenna ahead, holding only the black polythene bag in which he kept his fishing shorts. He had left his hooked

There were times when I could not understand his actions, or his decisions. I depended mostly on Obembe to help me clarify things. After the encounter with Abulu the previous week, which Solomon had just referred to, Obembe had told me a story he said was responsible for Ikenna’s sudden change. I was pondering this story when Boja cried: “My God, Ikenna, look, Mama Iyabo!” He’d seen one of our neighbours, who hawked groundnuts about on foot, seated on the bench in front of the church with the priest who’d come to the river earlier. By the time Boja raised the alarm, it was already too late; the woman had seen us.

Have you all seen it? Have you seen what your folly has caused? Didn’t I say we should stop going to this stupid river, but none of you listened?” He piled both hands on his head: “You will see that she will certainly blow the whistle to Mama. You want to bet it?” He slapped his forehead. “You want to?”

No one replied. “You see?” he said. “Your eyes have now opened, right? You will see.”

Mother was deeply shaken by the weig