You will never think of "Biafra babies" the same way again

The flag of independent Republic of Biafra was red, black, and green with half of a yellow sun in the center. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's powerful novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, is set in Biafra, which declared independence from Nigeria in 1967 and then suffered a three-year war of attrition. Now I know—really know—how the words "Biafra babies" meaning "starving infants" enter the lexicon.

The action begins in the early 1960s and follows the interwoven lives of three characters:

—Ugwu, a boy from a village who goes to work as houseboy for Odenigbo, a professor at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Ugwu is twelve or thirteen when he enters the Master's service.

—Olanna Ozobia, the daughter of wealthy parents and twin sister of Kainene. The twins have just returned from London where they obtained advanced academic degrees, and Olanna moves from Lagos where her parents have a mansion and lavish lifestyle to Nsukka where she teaches in the university.

—Richard Churchill, a young, white, English ex-pat who wants to write a book about Igbo art and moves to Nsukka, a center of Igbo culture. 

Olanna becomes Odenigbo's lover and, eventually, his wife. Richard becomes Kainene's lover. The book evokes intellectually stimulating evenings in Odenigbo's living room with people from the university as they discuss and debate politics, society, life. We learn about the tension between the Igbo in Biafra, Nigeria's south, and the Hausa in the north. The French and British ignored tribal cultures, loyalties, and languages when they created independent states. 

There is tension between the Christian Igbo and the Muslim Northerners, between the economically aggressive and successful Igbo (called by the Northerns "Africa's Jews" because of their success in business) and the rest of the population. Odenigbo and his friends are intellectual revolutionaries, disgusted by the corruption (which is rampant) and inequality in Nigeria. Then there's a coup and Igbo soldiers take over.

We learn about it listening to Odenigbo's radiogram. "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."

More guests than usual arrive and they celebrate: "'If we had more men like Major Nzeogwu in this country, we would not be where we are today,' Master said. 'He actually has a vision.'" And then there's a counter coup, the Igbo soldiers are slaughtered, and war begins in earnest.

The novel is divided into four sections. With my very rough dating they are: The Early Sixties (1962-67), The Late Sixties (1967-68), The Early Sixties (1963-64),  and The Late Sixties (1968-70). When I first finished the novel, I wondered why Adichie decided to interrupt the continuity with the extended flashback. On reflection I've decided that the flashback, which dramatizes the tensions between the Odenigbo and Olanna, between Richard and Kainene, and between the sisters, is actually a relief from the growing trauma of the war.

Was it a more brutal war than other wars? Probably not. The Igbo, traditionally a military people, were outgunned and overwhelmed. The British and the Soviet's supported the Nigerians and their planes bombed and strafed Biafran towns and villages. We see the war from the point of view of the people who are being bombed and strafed and starved and conscripted. One of the more moving sections of the novel is Ugwu's being picked up by the military and impressed into service.

While Adichie evokes the war and the suffering and the hunger, she does not editorialize. Readers can draw their own conclusions about the war's effect on different people—the quietly heroic, the profiteers, the cowardly, the frightened, and the starving children. And that, as the saying says, truth is the first victim of war.

It is a long book, 543 pages, but I was sorry when it ended. The war does eventually, harrowingly end, Adichie supplies a brief coda. But I was so invested in Ugwu, Olanna, Richard, and Odenigbo I wanted to know more. How is it even possible to remake lives after such national trauma? It is, I believe, a sign of the novel's power that it provokes such a question.