Purple hibiscus

by Чимаманда Нгози Адичи

  "Did you eat any of the native foods sacrificed to idols?"

  "No. Father."

  "Did you participate in any pagan rituals?"

  "No, Father." I paused. "But we looked at mmuo. Masquerades."

  "Did you enjoy that?"

  I looked up at the photo on the wall and wondered if the Pope himself had actually signed it. "Yes, Father."

  "You understand that it is wrong to take joy in pagan ritual, because it breaks the first commandment. Pagan rituals misinformed superstition, and they are the gateway to Hell. Do you understand that, then?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "For your penance say the Our Father ten times, Hail Mary six times, and the Apostles' Creed once. And you must make a conscious effort to convert everyone who enjoys the ways of heathens."

  "Yes, Father."

  "All right, then, make the Act of Contrition."

  While I recited the Act of Contrition, Father Benedict murmured blessings and made the sign of the cross.

  Papa and Mama were still sitting on the sofa, heads bent, when I came out. I sat next to Jaja, bent my head, and made my penance. As we drove home, Papa talked loudly, above the "Ave Maria." "I am spotless now, we are all spotless. If God calls us right now, we are going straight to Heaven. Straight to Heaven. We will not require the cleansing of Purgatory." He was smiling, his eyes bright, his hand gently drumming the steering wheel. And he was still smiling when he called Aunty Ifeoma soon after we got back home, before he had his tea. "I discussed it with Father Benedict, and he says the children can go on pilgrimage to Aokpe but you must make it clear that what is happening there has not been verified by the church." A pause. "My driver, Kevin, will take them." A pause. "Tomorrow is too soon. The day after." A long pause. "Oh, all right. God bless you and the children. Bye."

  Papa put the phone down and turned to us. "You will leave tomorrow, so go up and pack your things. Pack for five days."

  "Yes, Papa," Jaja and I said together.

  "Maybe, anam asi," Mama said, "they should not visit Ifeoma's house empty-handed."

  Papa stared at her as if surprised that she had spoken. "We will put some food in the car, of course, yams and rice," he said. "Ifeoma mentioned that gas cylinders were scarce in Nsukka."

  "Gas cylinders?"

  "Yes, cooking gas. She said she uses her old kerosene stove now. You remember the story of adulterated kerosene that was blowing up stoves and killing people? I thought maybe you might send one or two gas cylinders to her from the factory."

  "Is that what you and Ifeoma planned?"

  "Kpa, I am just making a suggestion. It is up to you to decide."

  Papa examined Mama's face for a while. "Okay," he said. He turned back to Jaja and me. "Go up and pack your things. You can take twenty minutes from your study time."

  We climbed the curving stairs slowly. I wondered if Jaja's stomach rumbled at the lower part like mine did. It was the first time in our lives that we would be sleeping outside home without Papa.

  "Do you want to go to Nsukka?" I asked when we got to the landing.

  "Yes," he said, and his eyes said that he knew I did, too. And I could not find the words in our eye language to tell him how my throat tightened at the thought of five days without Papa's voice, without his footsteps on the stairs.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Kevin brought two full gas cylinders from Papa's factory and put them into the boot of the Volvo alongside bags of rice and beans, a few yams, bunches of green plantains, and pineapples. Jaja and I stood by the hibiscus bushes, waiting. The gardener was clipping away at the bougainvillea, taming the flowers that defiantly stuck out the leveled top. He had raked underneath the frangipani trees and dead leaves and pink flowers lay in piles, ready for the wheelbarrow. "Here are your schedules for the week you will stay in Nsukka," Papa said. The sheet of paper he thrust into my hand was similar to the schedule pasted above my study desk upstairs, except he had penciled in two hours of "time with your cousins" each day.

  "The only day you are excused from that schedule is when you go to Aokpe with your aunt," Papa said. When he hugged Jaja and then me, his hands were shaking. "I have never been without you two for more than a day."

  I did not know what to say, but Jaja nodded and said, "We will see you in a week."

  "Kevin, drive carefully. Do you understand?" Papa asked, as we got in the car.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get petrol on your way back, at Ninth Mile, and don't forget to bring me the receipt."

  "Yes, sir."

  Papa asked us to get out of the car. He hugged us both again, smoothed the back of our necks, and asked us not to forget to say the full fifteen decades of the rosary during the drive. Mama hugged us one more time before we got back in the car.

  "Papa is still waving," Jaja said, as Kevin nosed the car up the driveway. He was looking in the mirror above his head.

  "He's crying," I said.

  "The gardener is waving, too," Jaja said, and I wondered if he had really not heard me. I pulled my rosary from my pocket, kissed the crucifix, and started the prayer.

  I looked out the window as we drove, counting the blackened hulks of cars on the roadside, some left for so long they were covered with reddish rust. I woa dered about the people who had been inside, how they ha felt just before the accident, before the smashing glass and crunched metal and leaping flames. I did not concentrate on any of the glorious Mysteries, and knew that Jaja did not, either, because he kept forgetting when it was his turn to start the decade of the rosary.

  About forty minutes into the drive, I saw a sign on the roadside that read university of nigeri nsukka, and I asked Kevin if we were almost there.

  "No," he said. "A little while longer."

  Near the town of Opi — the dust-covered church and signs read opi — we came to a police checkpoint. Old tires and nail-studded logs were strewn across most of the road, leaving only a narrow space. A policeman flagged us down as we approached. Kevin groaned. Then as he slowed, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a ten-naira note and flung it out of the window, toward the policeman. The policeman gave a mock salute, smiled, and waved us through. Kevin would not have done that if Papa had been in the car. When policemen or soldiers stopped Papa, he spent so long showing them all his car papers, letting them search his car, anything but bribe them to let him pass. We cannot be part of what we fight, he often told us.

  "We're entering the town of Nsukka," Kevin said, a few minutes later. We were driving past the market. The crowded roadside stores with their sparse shelves of goods threatened to spill over onto a thin strip of road already full of double parked cars, hawkers with trays balanced on their heads, motorcyclists, boys pushing wheelbarrows full of yams, women holding baskets, beggars looking up from their mats and waving. Kevin drove slowly now; potholes suddenly materialized in the middle of the road, and he followed the swerving motion of the car ahead of us. When we came to a point just past the market where the road had narrowed, eaten away by erosion at the sides, he stopped for a while to let other cars go by. "We're at the university," he said, finally. A wide arch towered over us, bearing the words university of Nigeria, nsukka in black, cut-out metal. The gates underneath the arch were flung wide open and manned by security men in dark brown uniforms and matching berets. Kevin stopped and rolled down the windows. "Good afternoon. Please, how can we get to Marguerite Cartwright Avenue?" he asked.

  The security man closest to us, his facial skin creased like a rumpled dress, asked, "How are you?" before he told Kevin that Marguerite Cartwright Avenue was very close; we had only to keep straight and then make a right at the first junction and an almost immediate left. Kevin thanked him and we drove off.

  A lawn the color of spinach splashed across the side of the road. I turned to stare at the statue in the middle of the lawn, a black lion standing on its hind legs, tail curved upward, chest puffed out. I didn't realize Jaja was looking, too, until he read aloud the words inscribed on the pedestal: "To restore
the dignity of man.' Then, as though I could not tell, he added, "It's the university's motto."

  Marguerite Cartwright Avenue was bordered by tall gmelina trees. I imagined the trees bending during a rainy-season thunderstorm, reaching across to touch each other and turning the avenue into a dark tunnel. The duplexes with gravel-covered driveways and beware of dogs signs in the front yard soon gave way to bungalows with driveways the length of two cars and then blocks of flats with wide stretches of spaot 'H in front of them instead of driveways. Kevin drove slowly, muttering Aunty Ifeoma's house number as if that would make us find it sooner. It was in the fourth block we came to, a tall bland building with peeling blue paint and with television aentennas sticking out from the verandahs. It had three flats on each side, and Aunty Ifeoma's was on the ground floor on the left. In front was a circular burst of bright colors-a garden fenced around with barbed wire. Roses and hibiscuses and lilies and ixora and croton grew side by side like a hand-painted wreath.

  Aunty Ifeoma emerged from the flat in a pair of shorts, rubbing her hands over the front of her T-shirt. The skin at her knees was very dark.

  "Jaja! Kambili!" She barely waited for us to climb out of the car before hugging us, squeezing us close together so we both fit in the stretch of her arms.

  "Good afternoon, Mah," Kevin greeted before he went around to open the boot.

  "Ah! Ah!" Aunty Ifeoma said. "Does Eugene think we are starving? Even a bag of rice?"

  Kevin smiled. "Oga said it is to greet you, Mah."

  "Hei!" Aunty yelped, looking into the boot. "Gas cylinders? Oh, nwunye m should not have bothered herself so much." Then Aunty Ifeoma did a little dance, moving her arms in rowing motions, throwing each leg in front of her and stamping down hard.

  Kevin stood by and rubbed his hands together in pleasure, as if he had orchestrated the big surprise. He hoisted a gas cylinder out of the boot, and Jaja helped him carry it into the flat. "Your cousins will be back soon, they went out to say happy birthday to Father Amadi, he's our friend and he works at our chaplaincy. I have been cooking, I even killed a chicken for you two!"

  Aunty Ifeoma laughed and pulled me to her. She smelled of nutmeg.

  "Where do we place these, Mah?" Kevin asked.

  "Just leave the things on the verandah. Amaka and Obiora will put them away later."

  Aunty Ifeoma still held on to me as we entered the living room. I noticed the ceiling first, how low it was. I felt I could reach out and touch it; it was so unlike home, where the high ceilings gave our rooms an airy stillness. The pungent fumes of kerosene smoke mixed with the aroma of curry and nutmeg from the kitchen.

  "Let me see if my jollof rice is burning!" Aunty Ifeoma dashed into the kitchen.

  I sat down on the brown sofa. The seams of the cushions were frayed and slipping apart. It was the only sofa in the living room; next to it were cane chairs, softened with brown cushions. The center table was cane, too, supporting an oriental vase with pictures of kimono-clad dancing women. Three long-stemmed roses, so piercingly red I wondered if they were', plastic, were in the vase.

  "Nne, don't behave like a guest. Come in, come in," Aunty Ifeoma said, coming out from the kitchen.

  I followed her down a short hallway lined with crammed bookshelves. The gray wood looked as though it would collapse if just one more book were added. Each book looked clean; they were all either read often or dusted often.

  "This is my room. I sleep here with Chima," Aunty Ifeoma said, opening the first door. Cartons and bags of rice were stacked against the wall near the door. A tray held giant tins of dried milk and Bournvita, near a study table with a reading lamp, bottles of medicine, books. At another corner, suitcases were piled on top of one another.

  Aunty Ifeoma led the way to another room, with two beds along one wall. They were pushed together to create space for more than two people! Two dressers, a mirror, and a study desk and chair managed to fit in also.

  I wondered where Jaja and I would be sleeping, and as if Aunty Ifeoma had read my thoughts, she said, "You and Amaka will sleep here, nne. Obiora sleeps in the living room so Jaja will stay with him."

  I heard Kevin and Jaja come into the flat.

  "We have finished bringing the things in, Mah. I'm leaving now," Kevin said. He spoke from the living room, but the flat was so small he did not have to raise his voice.

  "Tell Eugene I said thank you. Tell him we are well. Drive carefully."

  "Yes, Mah."

  I watched Kevin leave, and suddenly my chest felt tight. I wanted to run after him, to tell him to wait while I got my bag and got back in the car.

  "Nne, Jaja, come and join me in the kitchen until your cousins come back." Aunty Ifeoma sounded so casual, as if it were completely normal to have us visit, as if we had visited so many times in the past. Jaja led the way into the kitchen and sat down on a low wooden stool. I stood by the door because there was hardly enough room in the kitchen not to get in her way, as she drained rice at the sink, checked on the cooking meat, blended tomatoes in a mortar. The light blue kitchen tiles were worn and chipped at the corners, but they looked scrubbed clean, as did the pots, whose lids did not fit, one side slipping crookedly into the pot. The kerosene stove was on a wooden table by the window. The walls near the window and the threadbare curtains had turned black-gray from the kerosene smoke.

  Aunty Ifeoma chattered as she put the rice back on the stove and chopped two purple onions, her stream of sentences punctuated by her cackling laughter. She seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time because she reached up often to brush away the onion tears with the back of her hand. Her children came in a few minutes later. They looked different, maybe because I was seeing them for the first time in their own home rather than in Abba, where they were visitors in Papa-Nnukwu's house. Obiora took off a dark pair of sunglasses and slipped them in the pockets of his shorts as they came in. He laughed when he saw me.

  "Jaja and Kambili are here!" Chima piped. We all hugged in greeting, brief clasps of our bodies. Amaka barely let her sides meet mine before she backed away. She was wearing lipstick, a different shade that was more red than brown, and her dress was molded to her lean body.

  "How was the drive down here?" she asked, looking at Jaja.

  "Fine," Jaja said. "I thought it would be longer than it was."

  "Oh, Enugu really isn't that far from here," Amaka said.

  "We still haven't bought the soft drinks, Mom," Obiora said.

  "Did I not tell you to buy them before you left, gbo?" Aunty Ifeoma slid the onion slices into hot oil and stepped back.

  "I'll go now. Jaja, do you want to come with me? We're just going to a kiosk in the next compound."

  "Don't forget to take empty bottles," Aunty Ifeoma said. I watched Jaja leave with Obiora. I could not see his face. I could not tell if he felt as bewildered as I did.

  "Let me go and change, Mom, and I'll fry the plantains!! Amaka said, turning to leave.

  "Nne, go with your cousin," Aunty Ifeoma said to me. I followed Amaka to her room, placing one frightened foot after the next. The cement floors were rough, did not let my feet glide over them the way the smooth marble floors back home did. Amaka took her earrings off, placed them on top off the dresser, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her, wondering if she knew that I had followed her into the room.

  "I'm sure you think Nsukka is uncivilized compared to Enugu," she said, still looking in the mirror. "I told Mom to stop forcing you both to come."

  "I… we… wanted to come."

  Amaka smiled into the mirror, a thin, patronizing smile that seemed to say I should not have bothered lying to her. "There's no happening place in Nsukka, in case you haven't realized that already. Nsukka has no Genesis or Nike Lake."

  "What?"

  "Genesis and Nike Lake, the happening places in Enugu. You go there all the time, don't you?"

  "No."

  Amaka gave me an odd look. "But you go once in a whil
e?"

  "I… yes." I had never been to the restaurant Genesis and had only been to the hotel Nike Lake when Papa's business partner had a wedding reception there. We had stayed only long enough for Papa to take pictures with the couple and give them a present.

  Amaka picked up a comb and ran it through the ends of her short hair. Then she turned to me and asked, "Why do you lower your voice?"

  "What?"

  "You lower your voice when you speak. You talk in whispers."

  "Oh," I said, my eyes focused on the desk, which was full of things-books, a cracked mirror, felt-tipped pens. Amaka put the comb down and pulled her dress over her head. In her white lacy bra and light blue underwear, she looked like a Hausa goat: brown, long and lean. I quickly averted my gaze. I had never seen anyone undress; it was sinful to look upon another person's nakedness.

  "I'm sure this is nothing close to the sound system in your room in Enugu," Amaka said. She pointed at the small cassete player at the foot of the dresser. I wanted to tell her that I die not have any kind of music system in my room back home, but I was not sure she would be pleased to hear that, just as she would not be pleased to hear it if I did have one. She turned the cassette player on, nodding to the polyphonic beat of drums. "I listen mostly to indigenous musicians. They're culturally conscious; they have something real to say. Fela and Osadebe and Onyeka are my favorites. Oh, I'm sure you probably don't know who they are, I'm sure you're into American pop like other teenagers." She said "teenagers" as if she were not one, as if teenagers were a brand of people who, by not listening to culturally conscious music, were a step beneath her. And she said "culturally conscious" in the proud way that people say a word they never knew they would learn til they do.

  I sat still on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, wanting to tell Amaka that I did not own a cassette player, that I could hardly tell any kinds of pop music apart. "Did you paint this?" I asked, instead. The watercolor painting of a woman with a child was much like a copy of the Virgin and Child oil painting that hung in Papa's bedroom, except the woman and child in Amaka's painting were dark-skinned.