Do This Before Tomorrow ⏰

𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 "𝘊𝘶𝘵 & 𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦" 𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘥𝘺 [Main logotype Expert Modern Advice](       Dear Fellow Investor, From the аmаzіng fееdback I've received from our members... [...this is our top "buу alert" of the week.]( I wanted to give you one last сhаnсе at seeing it before it's removed from our servers. This could be the easiest (and safest) mоnеу you ever make. [Gеt the details hеrе.]( All the best, Master was a little crazy; he had spent too many years reading books overseas, talked to himself in his ice, did not always return greetings, and had too much hair. Ugwu’s aunty said this in a low voice as they walked on the path. But he is a good man, she added. And as long as you work well, you will eat well. You will even eat meat every day. She ped to spit; the saliva left her mouth with a sucking sound and landed on the grass. Ugwu did not believe that anybody, not even this master he was going to live with, ate meat every day. He did not disagree with his aunty, though, because he was too choked with expectation, too busy imagining his away from the village. They had been walking for a while , since they got the lorry at the motor park, and the afternoon s un burned the back of his neck. But he did not mind. He was prepared to walk hours more in even hotter sun. He had seen anything like the streets that appeared after they went past the university gates, streets so smooth and tarred that he itched to lay his cheek down on them. He would be able to describe to his sister Anulika how the bungalows were painted the color of the sky and sat side by side like polite well-dressed men, how the hedges separating them were trimmed so flat on top that they looked like tables wrapped with s. His aunty walked er, her slippers making slap-slap sounds that echoed in the silent street. Ugwu dered if she, too, could feel the coal tar ting hotter underneath, through her thin soles. They went past a sign, ODIM STREET, and Ugwu mouthed street, as he did whe he saw an English word that was not too long. He smelled something sweet, heady, as they walked into a compound, and was sure it came from the white flowers clustered on the bushes at the entrance. The bushes were shaped like slender hills. The lawn glistened. Butterflies hovered above. I told Master you will l everything , osiso-osiso, his aunty said. Ugwu nodded attentively although she had already told him this many times, as often as she told him the story of how his good fortune came about: While she was sweeping the corridor in the mathematics department a week ago, she heard Master say that he needed a houseboy to do his cleaning, and she said she could help, speaking before his typist or ice messenger could to bring someone. I will l , Aunty, Ugwu said. He was staring at the car in the garage; a strip of metal ran around its blue body like a necklace. Remember, what you will answer whe he s you is Yes, sah! Yes, sah! Ugwu repeated. They were standing before the glass door. Ugwu held back from reaching out to touch the cement w, to see how different it would feel from the mud ws of his mother’s hut that still bore the faint patterns of molding fingers. For a brief moment, he wished he were back t , in his mother’s hut, under the dim coolness of the thatch roof; or in his aunty’s hut, the one in the village with a corrugated iron roof. His aunty tapped on the glass. Ugwu could see the white curtains behind the door. A voice said, in English, Yes? Come in. They took their slippers before walking in. Ugwu had seen a room so wide. Despite the brown sofas arranged in a semicircle, the side tables between them, the shelves crammed with books, and the center table with a vase of red and white plastic flowers, the room still seemed to have too much space. Master sat in an armchair, wearing a singlet and a pair of shorts. He was not sitting upright but slanted, a book covering his face, as though oblivious that he had just asked people in. Good afternoon, sah! This is the child, Ugwu’s aunty said. Master looked up. His complexion was very dark, like old bark, and the hair that covered his chest and legs was a lustrous, darker shade. He pulled his glasses. The child? The houseboy, sah. Oh, yes, you have brought the houseboy. I kpotago ya. Master’s Igbo felt feathery in Ugwu’s ears. It was Igbo colored by the sliding sounds of English, the Igbo of one who spoke English often. He will work hard, his aunty said. He is a very good boy. Just tell him what he should do. Thank, sah! Master grunted in response, watching Ugwu and his aunty with a faintly distracted expression, as if their presence made it difficult for him to remember something important. Ugwu’s aunty patted Ugwu’s shoulder, whispered that he should do well, and turned to the door. After she left, Master put his glasses back on and faced his book, relaxing further into a slanting position, legs stretched out. Even when he turned the pages he did so with his eyes on the book. Ugwu stood by the door, waiting. Sunlight streamed in through the dows, and from time to time a gentle breeze lifted the curtains. The room was silent except for the rustle of Master’s page-turning. Ugwu stood for a while before he began to edge closer and closer to the bookshelf, as though to hide in it, and then, after a while, he sank down to the floor, cradling his raffia bag between his knees. He looked up at the ceiling, so high up, so piercingly white. He closed his eyes and tried to reimagine this spacious room with the alien furniture, but he couldn’t. He ed his eyes, overcome by a der, and looked around to make sure it was real. To think that he would sit on these sofas, polish this slippery-smooth floor, wash these gauzy curtains. Kedu afa gi? What’s your ? Master asked, startling him. Ugwu stood up. What’s your ? Master asked again and sat up straight. He filled the armchair, his thick hair that stood high on his head, his muscled arms, his broad shoulders; Ugwu had imagined an older man, somebody frail, and he felt a sudden fear that he might not this master who looked so youthfully capable, who looked as if he needed nothing. Master turned and left. Ugwu stood trembling in the middle of the room, still holding the chicken pieces with his hand outstretched. He wished he did not have to walk past the dining room to to the kitchen. Finy, he put the chicken back in his pockets, took a deep breath, and left the room. Master was at the dining table, the teacup in front of him placed on a pile of books. You k who rey killed Lumumba? Master said, looking up from a magazine. It was the Americans and the Belgians. It had nothing to do with Katanga. Yes, sah, Ugwu said. He wanted Master to keep talking, so he could listen to the sonorous voice, the musical blend of English words in his Igbo sentences. You are my houseboy, Master said. If I you to go outside and beat a woman walking on the street with a stick, and you then give her a bloody wound on her leg, who is responsible for the wound, you or me? Ugwu stared at Master, shaking his head, dering if Master was referring to the chicken pieces in some roundabout way. Lumumba was prime minister of Congo. Do you k w Congo is? Master asked. No, sah. Master got up quickly and went into the study. Ugwu’s confused fear made his eyelids quiver. Would Master send him because he did not speak English well, kept chicken in his pocket overnight, did not k the strange places Master d? Master came back with a wide piece of paper that he unfolded and laid out on the dining table, pushing aside books and magazines. He pointed with his pen. This is our world, although the people who drew this map decided to put their own land on top of ours. T is no top or bottom, you see. Master picked up the paper and folded it, so that one edge touched the other, leaving a hollow between. Our world is round, it ends. Nee anya, this is water, the seas and oceans, and ’s Europe and ’s our own continent, Africa, and the Congo is in the middle. Farther up is Nigeria, and Nsukka is , in the southeast; this is w we are. He tapped with his pen. Yes, sah. Did you go to school? My father’s crops failed, sah. Master nodded slowly. Why didn’t your father find somebody to lend him your school fees? Sah? Your father should have borrowed! Master snapped, and then, in English, Education is a priority! How can we resist exploitation if we don’t have the tools to understand exploitation? Yes, sah! Ugwu nodded vigorously. He was determined to appear as alert as he could, because of the wild shine that had appeared in Master’s eyes. I will enroll you in the staff primary school, Master said, still tapping on the piece of paper with his pen. Ugwu’s aunty had told him that if he served well for a few years, Master would send him to commercial school w he would l typing and shorthand. She had mentioned the staff primary school, but to tell him that it was for the children of the lecturers, who wore blue unis and white socks so intricately trimmed with wisps of lace that you dered why anybody had wasted so much time on mere socks. Yes, sah, he said. Thank, sah. I suppose you will be the oldest in class, starting in standard thr ee at your age, Master said. And the way you can their respect is to be . Do you understand? Jomo takes care of the compound. He comes in three times a week. Funny man, I’ve seen him talking to the croton plant. Master paused. Anyway, he’ll be tomorrow. Later, Ugwu wrote a list of food items and gave it to Master. Master stared at the list for a while. Remarkable blend, he said in English. I suppose they’ll teach you to use more vowels in school. Ugwu disliked the amusement in Master’s face. We need wood, sah, he said. Wood? Simmy Adelman, Editor Behind the Markets   Odenigbo will always be my . Sir is arbitrary. You could be the sir tomorrow. Yes, sah—Odenigbo. Ugwu rey preferred sah, the crisp power behind the word, and when two men from the works department came a few days later to inst shelves in the corridor, he told them that they would have to wait for Sah to come ; he himself could not sign the white paper with typewritten words. He said Sah proudly. He’s one of these village houseboys, one of the men said dismissively, and Ugwu looked at the man’s face and murmured a curse about acute diarrhea follog him and of his spring for . As he arranged Master’s books, he promised himself, ping short of speaking aloud, that he would l how to sign s. In the follog weeks, the weeks when he examined every corner of the bungalow, when he discovered that a beehive was lodged on the cashew tree and that the butterflies converged in the front yard when the sun was brightest, he was just as careful in ling the rhythms of Master’s . Every morning, he picked up the Daily Times and Renaissance that the vendor dropped at the door and folded them on the table next to Master’s tea and bread. He had the Opel washed before Master finished break, and when Master came back from work and was taking a siesta, he dusted the car over again, before Master left for the tennis courts. He moved around silently on the days that Master retired to the study for hours. When Master paced the corridor talking in a loud voice, he made sure that t was hot water ready for tea. He scrubbed the floors daily. He wiped the louvers until they sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, paid attention to the tiny cracks in the bathtub, polished the saucers that he used to serve kola nut to Master’s friends. T were at least two visitors in the living room each day, the radiogram turned on low to strange flutelike music, low enough for the talking and laughing and glass-clinking to come clearly to Ugwu in the kitchen or in the corridor as he ironed Master’s clothes. He wanted to do more, wanted to give Master every reason to keep him, and so one morning he ironed Master’s socks. They didn’t look rumpled, the black ribbed socks, but he thought they would look even better straightened. The hot iron hissed and when he raised it, he saw that half of the sock was glued to it. He froze. Master was at the dining table, finishing up break, and would come in any minute to pull on his socks and shoes and take the files on the shelf and for work. Ugwu wanted to hide the sock under the chair and dash to the drawer for a pair but his legs would not move. He stood t with the burned sock, knog Master would find him that way. You’ve ironed my socks, haven’t you? Master asked. You stupid ignoramus. Stupid ignoramus slid out of his mouth like music. Sorry, sah! Sorry, sah! I told you not to me sir. Master picked up a file from the shelf. I’m late. Sah? Should I bring another pair? Ugwu asked. But Master had already slipped on his shoes, without socks, and hurried out. Ugwu heard him bang the car door and drive away. His chest felt weighty; he did not k why he had ironed the socks, why he had not simply done the safari suit. Evil spirits, that was it. The evil spirits had made him do it. They lurked everyw, after . Whe he was ill with the fever, or once when he fell from a tree, his mother would rub his body with okwuma, the while muttering, We sh defeat them, they will not . He went out to the front yard, past stones placed side by side around the manicured lawn. The evil spirits would not . He would not let them defeat him. T was a round grassless patch in the middle of the lawn, like an island in a green sea, w a thin palm tree stood. Ugwu had seen any palm tree that short, or one with s that flared out so ly. It did not look strong enough to bear fruit, did not look useful at , like most of the plants . He picked up a stone and threw it into the distance. So much wasted space. In his village, people farmed the tiniest plots outside their s and planted useful veables and herbs. His grandmother had not needed to grow her favorite herb, arigbe, because it grew wild everyw. She used to say that arigbe softened a man’s heart. She was the second of three wives and did not have the special position that came with being the first or the last, so before she asked her husband for anything, she told Ugwu, she cooked him spicy yam porridge with arigbe. It had worked, always. Perhaps it would work with Master. me Odenigbo! Master snapped before going in to take an afternoon bath. After Ugwu served the food, he stood by the kitchen door, watching as Master took a first forkful of rice and stew, took another, and then ed out, Excellent, my good man. Ugwu appeared from behind the door. Sah? I can plant the herbs in a sm garden. To cook more stews like this. A garden? Master ped to sip some water and turn a journal page. No, no, no. Outside is Jomo’s territory, and inside is yours. Division of labor, my good man. If we need herbs, we’ll ask Jomo to take care of it. Ugwu loved the sound of Division of labor, my good man, spoken in English. Yes, sah, he said, although he was already thinking of what spot would be best for the herb garden: near the Boys’ Quarters w Master went. He could not trust Jomo with the herb garden and would tend it himself when Master was out, and this way, his arigbe, his herb of forgiveness, would run out. It was later in the evening that he realized Master must have forgotten about the burnt sock long before coming . Ugwu came to realize other things. He was not a normal houseboy; Dr. Okeke’s houseboy next door did not sleep on a bed in a room, he slept on the kitchen floor. The houseboy at the end of the street with whom Ugwu went to the market did not decide what would be cooked, he cooked whatever he was ed to. And they did not have masters or madams who gave them books, saying, This one is excellent, just excellent. Ugwu did not understand most of the sentences in the books, but he made a show of reading them. Nor did he entirely understand the conversations of Master and his friends but listened anyway and heard that the world had to do more about the black people killed in Sharpeville, that the spy plane shot down in Russia served the Americans right, that De Gaulle was being clumsy in Algeria, that the United Nations would rid of Tshombe in Katanga. Once in a while, Master would stand up and raise his glass and his voice—To that brave black American led into the University of Mississippi! To Ceylon and to the world’s first woman prime minister! To Cuba for beating the Americans at their own game!—and Ugwu would enjoy the clink of beer bottles against glasses, glasses against glasses, bottles against bottles. More friends visited on weekends, and when Ugwu came out to serve their drinks Master would sometimes introduce him—in English, of course. Ugwu helps me around the house. Very clever boy. Ugwu would continue to uncork bottles of beer and Coke silently, while feeling the warm glow of pride spread up from the tips of his toes. He especiy liked it when Master introduced him to foreigners, like Mr. Johnson, who was from the Caribbean and stammered when he spoke, or Professor Lehman, the nasal white man from America who had eyes that were the piercing green of a fresh leaf. Ugwu was vaguely frightened the first time he saw him because he had always imagined that evil spirits had grass-colored eyes. He k the regular guests and brought out their drinks before Master asked him to. T was Dr. Patel, the Indian man who drank en Guinea beer mixed with Coke. Master ed him Doc. Whe Ugwu brought out the kola nut, Master would say, Doc, you k the kola nut does not understand English, before going on to bless the kola nut in Igbo. Dr. Patel laughed each time, with pleasure, leaning back on the sofa and throg his short legs up as if it were a joke he had heard before. After Master broke the kola nut and passed the saucer around, Dr. Patel always took a lobe and put it into his shirt pocket; Ugwu had seen him eat one. T was t skinny Professor Ezeka, with a voice so hoarse he sounded as if he spoke in whispers. He always picked up his glass and held it up against the light, to make sure Ugwu had washed it well. Sometimes he brought his own bottle of gin. Other times, he asked for tea and then went on to examine the sugar bowl and the tin of milk, muttering, The capabilities of bacteria are quite ordinary. T was Okeoma, who came most often and stayed the longest. He looked younger than the other guests, always wore a pair of shorts, and had bushy hair with a parting at the side that stood higher than Master’s. It looked rough and tangled, unlike Master’s, as if Okeoma did not like to comb it. Okeoma drank Fanta. He read his poetry aloud on some evenings, holding a sheaf of papers, and Ugwu would look through the kitchen door to see the guests watching him, their faces half frozen, as if they did not dare breathe. Afterward, Master would clap and say, in his loud voice, The voice of our generation! and the clapping would go on until Okeoma said sharply, That’s enough! And t was Miss Adebayo, who drank brandy like Master and was nothing like Ugwu had expected a university woman to be. His aunty had told him a little about university women. She would k, because she worked as a cleaner at the faculty of sciences during the day and as a waitress at the staff club in the evenings; sometimes, too, the lecturers paid her to come in and clean their s. She said university women kept framed photos of their student days in Ibadan and Britain and America on their shelves. For break, they had eggs that were not cooked well, so that the yolk danced around, and they wore bouncy straight-hair wigs and maxi-dresses that grazed their ankles. She told a story once about a couple at a cocktail party in the staff club who climbed out of a nice Peugeot 404, the man in an elegant cream suit, the woman in a green dress. Everybody turned to watch them, walking hand in hand, and then the d blew the woman’s wig her head. She was bald. They used hot combs to straighten their hair, his aunty had said, because they wanted to look like white people, although the combs ended up burning their hair . Ugwu had imagined the bald woman: beautiful with a nose that stood up, not the sitting-down flattened noses that he was used to. He imagined quietness, delicacy, the kind of woman whose sneeze, whose laugh and talk, would be soft as the under feathers closest to a chicken’s skin. But the women who visited Master, the ones he saw at the supermarket and on the streets, were different. Most of them did wear wigs (a few had their hair braided or plaited with thread), but they were not delicate stalks of grass. They were loud. The loudest was Miss Adebayo. She was not an Igbo woman; Ugwu could tell from her , even if he had not once run into her and her housegirl at the market and heard them both speaking rapid incomprehensible Yoruba. She had asked him to wait so that she could give him a ride back to the campus, but he thanked her and said he still had many things left to and would take a taxi, although he had finished shopping. He did not want to ride in her car, did not like how her voice rose above Master’s in the living room, chenging and arguing. He often fought the urge to raise his own voice from behind the kitchen door and tell her to shut up, especiy when she ed Master a sophist. He did not k what sophist meant, but he did not like that she ed Master that. Nor did he like the way she looked at Master. Even when somebody else was speaking and she was supposed to be focused on that person, her eyes would be on Master. One Saturday night, Okeoma dropped a glass and Ugwu came in to clean up the shards that lay on the floor. He took his time cleaning. The conversation was clearer from and it was easier to make out what Professor Ezeka said. It was almost impossible to hear the man from the kitchen. We should have a bigger pan-African response to what is happening in the American South rey— Professor Ezeka said. I k you’re not interested in her like that, but what still puzzles me is what these women see in you. Okeoma laughed and Ugwu was relieved. He did not want Miss Adebayo—or any woman—coming in to intrude and disrupt their lives. Some evenings, when the visitors left early, he would sit on the floor of the living room and listen to Master talk. Master mostly talked about things Ugwu did not understand, as if the brandy made him for that Ugwu was not one of his visitors. But it didn’t matter. Ugwu needed was the deep voice, the melody of the English-inflected Igbo, the glint of the thick eyeglasses. He had been with Master for four months when Master told him, A special woman is coming for the weekend. Very special. You make sure the house is clean. I’ll the food from the staff club. But, sah, I can cook, Ugwu said, with a sad premonition. She’s just come back from London, my good man, and she likes her rice a certain way. Fried rice, I think. I’m not sure you could make something suitable. Master turned to walk away. I can make that, sah, Ugwu said quickly, although he had no idea what fried rice was. Let me make the rice, and you the chicken from the staff club.     ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media, LLC. Inception Media, LLC appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media, LLC are not permitted to provide individualized financial аdvіsе. This email is not financial advice and any investment decіsіоn you make is solely your responsibility. Feel frее to contact us toll frее Domestic/International: +17072979173 Mon–Fri, 9am–5pm ET, or email us support@expertmodernadvice.com. [Unsubscrіbe]( to stop receiving marketing communication from us. 600 N Broad St Ste 5 PMB 1 Middletown, DE 19709 2023 Inception Media, LLC. 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