Purple Hibiscus

“I’m sure this is nothing close to the sound system in your room in Enugu,” Amaka said. She pointed at the small cassette player at the foot of the dresser. I wanted to tell her that I did 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 until 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.

“Yes, I paint sometimes.”

“It’s nice.” I wished that I had known that my cousin painted realistic watercolors. I wished that she would not keep looking at me as if I were a strange laboratory animal to be explained and catalogued.

“Did something hold you gi

rls in there?” Aunty Ifeoma called from the kitchen.

I followed Amaka back to the kitchen and watched her slice and fry the plantains. Jaja soon came back with the boys, the bottles of soft drinks in a black plastic bag. Aunty Ifeoma asked Obiora to set the table. “Today we’ll treat Kambili and Jaja as guests, but from tomorrow they will be family and join in the work,” she said.

The dining table was made of wood that cracked in dry weather. The outermost layer was shedding, like a molting cricket, brown slices curling up from the surface. The dining chairs were mismatched. Four were made of plain wood, the kind of chairs in my classroom, and the other two were black and padded. Jaja and I sat side by side. Aunty Ifeoma said the grace, and after my cousins said “Amen,” I still had my eyes closed.

“Nne, we have finished praying. We do not say Mass in the name of grace like your father does,” Aunty Ifeoma said with a chuckle.

I opened my eyes, just in time to catch Amaka watching me.

“I hope Kambili and Jaja come every day so we can eat like this. Chicken and soft drinks!” Obiora pushed at his glasses as he spoke.

“Mommy! I want the chicken leg,” Chima said.

“I think these people have started to put less Coke in the bottles,” Amaka said, holding her Coke bottle back to examine it.

I looked down at the jollof rice, fried plantains, and half of a drumstick on my plate and tried to concentrate, tried to get the food down. The plates, too, were mismatched. Chima and Obiora used plastic ones while the rest of us had plain glass plates, bereft of dainty flowers or silver lines. Laughter floated over my head. Words spurted from everyone, often not seeking and not getting any response. We always spoke with a purpose back home, especially at the table, but my cousins seemed to simply speak and speak and speak.

“Mom, biko, give me the neck,” Amaka said.

“Didn’t you talk me out of the neck the last time, gbo?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, and then she picked up the chicken neck on her plate and reached across to place it on Amaka’s plate.

“When was the last time we ate chicken?” Obiora asked.

“Stop chewing like a goat, Obiora!” Aunty Ifeoma said.

“Goats chew differently when they ruminate and when they eat, Mom. Which do you mean?”

I looked up to watch Obiora chewing.

“Kambili, is something wrong with the food?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, startling me. I had felt as if I were not there, that I was just observing a table where you could say anything at any time to anyone, where the air was free for you to breathe as you wished.

“I like the rice, Aunty, thank you.”

“If you like the rice, eat the rice,” Aunty Ifeoma said.

“Maybe it is not as good as the fancy rice she eats at home,” Amaka said.

“Amaka, leave your cousin alone,” Aunty Ifeoma said.

I did not say anything else until lunch was over, but I listened to every word spoken, followed every cackle of laughter and line of banter. Mostly, my cousins did the talking and Aunty Ifeoma sat back and watched them, eating slowly. She looked like a football coach who had done a good job with her team and was satisfied to stand next to the eighteen-yard box and watch.

After lunch, I asked Amaka where I could ease myself, although I knew that the toilet was the door opposite the bedroom. She seemed irritated by my question and gestured vaguely toward the hall, asking, “Where else do you think?”

The room was so narrow I could touch both walls if I stretched out my hands. There were no soft rugs, no furry cover for the toilet seat and lid like we had back home. An empty plastic bucket was near the toilet. After I urinated, I wanted to flush but the cistern was empty; the lever went limply up and down. I stood in the narrow room for a few minutes before leaving to look for Aunty Ifeoma. She was in the kitchen, scrubbing the sides of the kerosene stove with a soapy sponge.