Purple Hibiscus

“What clouds your face?” Father Amadi asked, sitting down beside me. His shoulder touched mine. The new smell of sweat and old smell of cologne filled my nostrils.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me about the nothing, then.”

“You believe in those boys,” I blurted out.

“Yes,” he said, watching me. “And they don’t need me to believe in them as much as I need it for myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to believe in something that I never question.” He picked up the water bottle, drank deeply from it. I watched the ripples in his throat as the water went down. I wished I were the water, going into him, to be with him, one with him. I had never envied water so much before. His eyes caught mine, and I looked away, wondering if he had seen the longing in my eyes.

“Your hair needs to be plaited,” he said.

“My hair?”

“Yes. I will take you to the woman who plaits your aunt’s hair in the market.”

He reached out then and touched my hair. Mama had plaited it in the hospital, but because of my raging headaches, she did not make the braids tight. They were starting to slip out of the twists, and Father Amadi ran his hand over the loosening braids, in gentle, smoothing motions. He was looking right into my eyes. He was too close. His touch was so light I wanted to push my head toward him, to feel the pressure of his hand. I wanted to collapse against him. I wanted to press his hand to my head, my belly, so he could feel the warmth that coursed through me.

He let go of my hair, and I watched him get up and run back to the boys on the field.

IT WAS TOO EARLY whe

n Amaka’s movements woke me up the next morning; the room was not yet touched by the lavender rays of dawn. In the faint glow from the security lights outside, I saw her tying her wrapper round her chest. Something was wrong; she did not tie her wrapper just to go to the toilet.

“Amaka, o gini?”

“Listen,” she said.

I could make out Aunty Ifeoma’s voice from the verandah, and I wondered what she was doing up so early. Then I heard the singing. It was the measured singing of a large group of people, and it came in through the window.

“Students are rioting,” Amaka said.

I got up and followed her into the living room. What did it mean, that students were rioting? Were we in danger? Jaja and Obiora were on the verandah with Aunty Ifeoma. The cool air felt heavy against my bare arms, as if it were holding on to raindrops that were reluctant to fall.

“Turn off the security lights,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “If they pass and see the light, they might throw stones up here.”

Amaka turned off the lights. The singing was clearer now, loud and resonant. There had to be a least five hundred people. “Sole administrator must go. He doesn’t wear pant oh! Head of State must go. He doesn’t wear pant oh! Where is running water? Where is light? Where is petrol?”

“The singing is so loud I thought they were right outside,” Aunty Ifeoma said.

“Will they come here?” I asked.

Aunty Ifeoma put an arm around me and drew me close. She smelled of talcum powder. “No, nne, we are fine. The people who might worry are those that live near the vice chancellor. Last time, the students burned a senior professor’s car.”

The singing was louder but not closer. The students were invigorated now. Smoke was rising in thick, blinding fumes that blended into the star-filled sky. Crashing sounds of breaking glass peppered the singing.

“All we are saying, sole administrator must go! All we are saying, he must go! No be so? Na so!”

Shouts and yells accompanied the singing. A solo voice rose, and the crowds cheered. The cool night wind, heavy with the smell of burning, brought clear snatches of the resonating voice speaking pidgin English from a street away.

“Great Lions and Lionesses! We wan people who dey wear clean underwear, no be so? Abi the Head of State dey wear common underwear, sef, talkless of clean one? No!”

“Look,” Obiora said, lowering his voice as if the group of about forty students jogging past could possibly hear him. They looked like a fast-flowing dark stream, illuminated by the torches and burning sticks they held.

“Maybe they are catching up with the rest from down campus,” Amaka said, after the students had passed.