Purple Hibiscus

“So you say. A woman with children and no husband, what is that?”

“Me.”

Mama shook her head. “You have come again, Ifeoma. You know what I mean. How can a woman live like that?” Mama’s eyes had grown round, taking up more space on her face.

“Nwunye m, sometimes life begins when marriage ends.”

“You and your university talk. Is this what you tell your students?” Mama was smiling.

“Seriously, yes. But they marry earlier and earlier these days. What is the use of a degree, they ask me, when we cannot find a job after graduation?”

“At least somebody will take care of them when they marry.”

“I don’t know who will take care of whom. Six girls in my first-year seminar class are married, their husbands visit in Mercedes and Lexus cars every weekend, their husbands buy them stereos and textbooks and refrigerators, and when they graduate, the husbands own them and their degrees. Don’t you see?”

Mama shook her head. “University talk again. A husband crowns a woman’s life, Ifeoma. It is what they want.”

“It is what they think they want. But how can I blame them? Look what this military tyrant is doing to our country.” Aunty Ifeoma closed her eyes, in the way that people do when they want to remember something unpleasant. “We have not had fuel for three months in Nsukka. I spent the night in the petrol station last week, waiting for fuel. And at the end, the fuel did not come. Some people left their cars in the station because they did not have enough fuel to drive back home. If you could see the mosquitoes that bit me that night, eh, the bumps on my skin were as big as cashew nuts.”

“Oh.” Mama shook her head sympathetically. “How are things generally at the university, though?”

“We ju

st called off yet another strike, even though no lecturer has been paid for the last two months. They tell us the Federal Government has no money.” Aunty Ifeoma chuckled with little humor. “Ifukwa, people are leaving the country. Phillipa left two months ago. You remember my friend Phillipa?”

“She came back with you for Christmas a few years ago. Dark and plump?”

“Yes. She is now teaching in America. She shares a cramped office with another adjunct professor, but she says at least teachers are paid there.” Aunty Ifeoma stopped and reached out to brush something off Mama’s blouse. I watched every movement she made; I could not tear my ears away. It was the fearlessness about her, about the way she gestured as she spoke, the way she smiled to show that wide gap.

“I have brought out my old kerosene stove,” she continued. “It is what we use now; we don’t even smell the kerosene in the kitchen anymore. Do you know how much a cooking-gas cylinder costs? It is outrageous!”

Mama shifted on the sofa. “Why don’t you tell Eugene? There are gas cylinders in the factory…”

Aunty Ifeoma laughed, patted Mama’s shoulder fondly “Nwunye m, things are tough, but we are not dying yet. I tell you all these things because it is you. With someone else, I would rub Vaseline on my hungry face until it shone.”

Papa came in then, on his way to his bedroom. I was sure it was to get more stacks of naira notes that he would give to visitors for igba krismas, and then tell them “It is from God, not me” when they started to sing their thanks.

“Eugene,” Aunty Ifeoma called out. “I was saying that Jaja and Kambili should spend some time with me and the children tomorrow.”

Papa grunted and kept walking to the door.

“Eugene!”

Every time Aunty Ifeoma spoke to Papa, my heart stopped, then started again in a hurry. It was the flippant tone; she did not seem to recognize that it was Papa, that he was different, special. I wanted to reach out and press her lips shut and get some of that shiny bronze lipstick on my fingers.

“Where do you want to take them?” Papa asked, standing by the door.

“Just to look around.”

“Sightseeing?” Papa asked. He spoke English, while Aunty Ifeoma spoke Igbo.

“Eugene, let the children come out with us!” Aunty Ifeoma sounded irritated; her voice was slightly raised. “Is it not Christmas that we are celebrating, eh? The children have never really spent time with one another. Imakwa, my little one, Chima, does not even know Kambili’s name.”

Papa looked at me and then at Mama, searched our faces as if looking for letters beneath our noses, above our foreheads, on our lips, that would spell something he would not like. “Okay. They can go with you, but you know I do not want my children near anything ungodly. If you drive past mmuo, keep your windows up.”

“I have heard you, Eugene,” Aunty Ifeoma said, with an exaggerated formality.

“Why don’t we all have lunch on Christmas day?” Papa asked. “The children can spend time together then.”