Purple Hibiscus

It was a double blow. I staggered. It was as if my calves had sacks of dried beans tied to them. Aunty Ifeoma asked for Jaja, and I nearly tripped, nearly fell to the floor, as I went to his room to call him. After Jaja talked to Aunty Ifeoma, he put the phone down and said, “We are going to Nsukka today. We will spend Easter in Nsukka.”

I did not ask him what he meant, or how he would convince Papa to let us go. I watched him knock on Papa’s door and go in.

“We are going to Nsukka. Kambili and I,” I heard him say.

I did not hear what Papa said, then I heard Jaja say, “We are going to Nsukka today, not tomorrow. If Kevin will not take us, we will still go. We will walk if we have to.”

I stood still in front of the staircase, my hands trembling violently. Yet I did not think to close my ears; I did not think to count to twenty. Instead, I went into my room and sat by the window, looking out at the cashew tree. Jaja came in to say that Papa had agreed that Kevin could take us. He held a bag so hastily packed he had not even done up the zipper, and he watched me throw some things into a bag, saying nothing. He was moving his weight from one leg to the other impatiently.

“Is Papa still in bed?” I asked, but Jaja did not answer as he turned to go downstairs.

I knocked on Papa’s door and opened it. He was sitting up in bed; his red silk pajamas looked disheveled. Mama was pouring water into a glass for him.

“Bye, Papa,” I said.

He got up to hug me. His face looked much brighter than in the morning, and the rashes seemed to be clearing.

“We will see you soon,” he said, kissing my forehead.

I hugged Mama before I left the room. The stairs seemed delicate all of a sudden, as if they would crumble and a huge hole would appear and prevent me from leaving. I walked slowly until I got downstairs. Jaja was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and he reached out to take my bag.

Kevin stood by the car when we came outside. “Who will take your father to church, now?” he asked, looking at us suspiciously. “Your father is not well enough to drive himself.”

Jaja remained silent for so long that I realized he was not going to give Kevin an answer, and I said, “He said you should take us to Nsukka.”

Kevin shrugged, and muttered, “This kind of trip, can’t you go tomorrow?” before starting the car. He remained silent throughout the drive, and I saw his eyes often dart to us, mostly to Jaja, in the rearview mirror.

A FILM OF SWEAT coated my entire body like a transparent second skin. It gave way to a dripping wetness on my neck, my forehead, underneath my breasts. We had left the back door of Aunty Ifeoma’s kitchen wide open although flies buzzed in, circling over a pot of old soup. It was a choice between flies and even more heat, Amaka had said, swiping at them.

Obiora was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and nothing else. He was bent over the kerosene stove, trying to get the fire to spread across the wick. His eyes were blotchy from the fumes.

“This wick has thinned so much there’s nothing left to hold the fire,” he said, when he finally got the fire to spread around. “We should use the gas cooker for everything now, anyway. There’s no point saving the gas, since we won’t be needing it for much longer.” He stretched, the sweat clinging to the outline of his ribs. He picked up an old newspaper and fanned himself for a while, then swatted at some flies.

“Nekwa! Don’t knock them into my pot,” Amaka said. She was pouring bright reddish-orange palm oil into a pot.

“We shouldn’t be bleaching any more palm oil. We should splurge on vegetable oil for these last few weeks,” Obiora said, still swatting at the flies.

“You sound like Mom has already gotten the visa,” Amaka snapped. She placed the pot on the kerosene burner. The fire snaked around to the side of the pot, still a wild orange, spewing fumes; it had not yet stabilized to a clean blue.

“She will get the visa. We should be positive.”

“Haven’t you heard how those American embassy people treat Nigerians? They insult you and call you a liar and on top of it, eh, refuse to give you a visa,” Amaka said.

“Mom will get the visa. A university is sponsoring her,” Obiora said.

“So? Universities sponsor many people who still don’t get visas.”

I started to cough. Thick white smoke from the bleaching palm oil filled the kitchen, and in the stuffy mix of the fumes and heat and flies, I felt faint.

“Kambili,” Amaka said. “Go to the verandah until the smoke blows out.”

“No, it’s nothing,” I said.

“Go, biko.”

I went to the verandah, still coughing. It was clear that I was unused to bleaching palm oil, that I was used to vegetable oil, which did not need bleaching. But there had been no resentment in Amaka’s eyes, no sneer, no turndown of her lips. I was grateful when she called me back later to ask that I help her cut the ugu for the soup. I did not just cut the ugu, I made the garri also. Without her still eyes bearing down on me, I did not pour in too much hot water, and the garri turned out firm and smooth. I ladled my garri onto a flat plate, pushed it to the side, and then spooned my soup beside it. I watched the soup spreading, seeping in underneath the garri. I had never done this before; at home, Jaja and I always used separate dishes for garri and soup.

We ate on the verandah, although it was almost as hot as the kitchen. The railings felt like the metal handles of a boiling pot.