Purple Hibiscus

“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 wondered about the people who had been inside, how they had 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 a decade of the rosary. About forty minutes into the drive, I saw a sign on the roadside that read UNIVERSITY OF NIGERIA, 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 school 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 doubleparked 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 gravelcovered 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 space 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 televisio

n aerials 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 handpainted 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.”