When their singing stopped, Pastor Ambrose's morning prayers sounded even louder. "God bless His Excellency! God give Tanzania and Gabon strength! God destroy Nigeria and Britain and Egypt and Algeria and Russia! In the mighty name of Jesus!"

Some people shouted Amen! from their rooms. Pastor Ambrose held his Bible up, as if some solid miracle would fall on it from the sky, and shouted nonsensical words: she baba she baba she baba.

"Stop babbling, Pastor Ambrose, and go and join the army! How is your speaking-in-tongues helping our cause?" Mama Oji said. She was in front of her room with her son, his cloth-covered head bent over a steaming bowl. When he raised his head to get a breath of air, Olanna looked at the concoction of urine and oils and herbs and God knew what else that Mama Oji had decided was the cure for asthma.

"Was the night bad for him?" she asked Mama Oji.

Mama Oji shrugged. "It was bad but not too bad." She turned to her son. "Do you want me to slap you before you inhale it? Why are you letting the thing evaporate and waste?"

He bent his head over the bowl again.

"Jehovah destroy Gowon and Adekunle!" Pastor Ambrose screamed.

"Be quiet and join the army!" Mama Oji said.

Somebody shouted from one of the rooms. "Mama Oji, leave Pastor alone! First let your husband go back to the army he ran away from!"

"At least he went!" Mama Oji's retort was swift. "While your own husband lives the shivering life of a coward in the forest of Ohafia so that the soldiers will not see him."

Baby came around from behind the house; the dog trailed behind her. "Mummy Ola! Bingo can see spirits. When he barks at night it means he sees spirits."

"There are no such things as spirits, Baby," Olanna said.

"Yes, there are."

It troubled Olanna, the things Baby was picking up here. "Did Adanna tell you that?"

"No, Chukwudi told me."

"Where is Adanna?"

"She's sleeping. She's sick," Baby said, and began to shoo away the flies that circled over Bingo's head.

Mama Oji muttered, "I have been telling Mama Adanna that the child's illness is not malaria. But she keeps giving her neem medicine that does nothing for her. If nobody else will say it, then I will: What Adanna has is Harold Wilson Syndrome, ho-ha."

"Harold Wilson Syndrome?"

"Kwashiorkor. The child has kwashiorkor."

Olanna burst out laughing. She did not know they had renamed kwashiorkor after the British prime minister, but her amusement dissipated when she went to Adanna's room. Adanna was lying on a mat, her eyes half closed. Olanna touched her face with the back of a palm, to check for a fever, although she knew there would be none. She should have realized it earlier; Adanna's belly was swollen and her skin was a sickly tone, much lighter than it was only weeks ago.

"This malaria is very stubborn," Mama Adanna said.

"She has kwashiorkor," Olanna said quietly.

"Kwashiorkor," Mama Adanna repeated, and looked at Olanna with frightened eyes.

"You need to find crayfish or milk."

"Milk, kwa? From where?" Mama Adanna asked. "But we have anti-kwash nearby Mama Obike was telling me the other day. Let me go and get some."

"What?"

Anti-kwashiorkor leaves," Mama Adanna said, already on her way out.

Olanna was surprised by how quickly she hitched up her wrapper and began to wade into the bush on the other side of the road. She came back moments later holding a bunch of slender green leaves. "I will cook porridge now," she said.

Adanna needs milk," Olanna said. "Those won't cure kwashiorkor."

"Leave Mama Adanna alone. The anti-kwash leaves will work as long as she does not boil them for too long," Mama Oji said. "Besides, the relief centers have nothing. And did you not hear that all the children in Nnewi died after drinking relief milk? The vandals had poisoned it."

Olanna called Baby and took her inside and undressed her.

"Ugwu already gave me a bath," Baby said, looking puzzled.

"Yes, yes, my baby," Olanna said, examining her carefully. Her skin was still the dark color of mahogany and her hair was still black and, although she was thinner, her belly was not swollen. Olanna wished so much that the relief center was open and that Okoromadu was still there, but he had moved to Orlu after the World Council of Churches gave his job to one of the many pastors who no longer had parishes.

Mama Adanna was cooking the leaves in the kitchen. Olanna took a tin of sardines and some dried milk from the carton Ezeka sent and gave them to her. "Don't tell anybody I gave you this. Give it to Adanna little by little."

Mama Adanna grasped Olanna. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I will not tell anybody."

But she did tell because, as Olanna left for Professor Ezeka's office later, Mama Oji called out, "My son has asthma and milk will not kill him!"

Olanna ignored her.

She walked to the major road and stood under a tree. Each time a car drove past, she tried to flag it down. A soldier in a rusty station wagon stopped. She saw the leer in his eyes even before she climbed in beside him, so she exaggerated her English accent, certain that he did not understand all she said, and spoke throughout the drive about the cause and mentioned that her car and driver were at the mechanic. He said very little until he dropped her off at the directorate building. He did not know who she was or who she knew.

Professor Ezeka's hawk-faced secretary slowly looked at Olanna, from her carefully brushed wig to her shoes, and said, "He's not in!"

"Then ring him right now and tell him I am waiting. My name is Olanna Ozobia."

The secretary looked surprised. "What?"

"Do I need to say it again?" Olanna asked. "I'm sure Prof will want to hear about this. Where shall I sit while you ring him?"

The secretary stared at her and Olanna stared back steadily. Then she mutely gestured to a chair and picked up the phone. A half hour later, Professor Ezeka's driver came in to take her to his house, tucked onto a hidden dirt road.

"I thought a VIP like you would live in the Government Reserved Area, Prof," Olanna said, after she greeted him.

"Oh, certainly not. It's too obvious a target for bombings." He had not changed. His fastidious sense of superiority lined his voice as he waved her in and asked her to wait for him while he finished up in his study

Olanna had seen little of Mrs. Ezeka in Nsukka; she was timid and barely educated, the kind of wife his village had found him, Odenigbo had said once. Olanna struggled to hide her surprise, then, when Mrs. Ezeka came out and hugged her twice in the spacious living room.

"It's so nice to see old friends! Our socializing these days is so official, this government-house event today and another one tomorrow." Mrs. Ezeka's gold pendant hung low on a chain around her neck. "Pamela! Come and greet Aunty."

The little girl who came out holding a doll was older than Baby, perhaps about eight years old. She had her mother's fat-cheeked face, and the pink satin ribbons in her hair swayed.

"Good afternoon," she said. She was undressing her doll, prising the skirt off the plastic body.

"How are you?" Olanna asked.

"Fine, thank you."

Olanna sank into a plush red sofa. A dollhouse, with tiny exquisite doll plates and teacups, was set out on the center table.

"What will you drink?" Mrs. Ezeka asked brightly. "I remember Odenigbo loved his brandy We do have some rather good brandy."

Olanna looked at Mrs. Ezeka. She could not possibly remember what Odenigbo drank because she had never visited in the evenings with her husband.

"I'd like some cold water, please," Olanna said.

"Just cold water?" Mrs. Ezeka asked. "Anyway, we can have something else after lunch. Steward!"