“Papa-Nnukwu used to say that an angry sun like this in rainy season means that a swift rain will come. The sun is warning us of the rain,” Amaka said, as we settled down on the mat with our food.
We ate quickly because of the heat, because even the soup tasted like sweat. Afterward, we trooped to the neighbors’ flat on the topmost floor and stood on their verandah, to see if we could catch a breeze. Amaka and I stood by the railings, looking down. Obiora and Chima squatted to watch the children playing on the floor, clustered around the plastic Ludo board and rolling dice. Somebody poured a bucket of water on the verandah and the boys lay down, with their backs on the wet floor.
I looked out at Marguerite Cartwright Avenue below, at a red Volkswagen driving past. It revved loudly as it went over the speed bump, and even from the verandah, I could see where the color had faded to a rusty orange. I felt nostalgic as I watched the Volkswagen disappear down the street, and I was not sure why. Maybe it was because it revved like Aunty Ifeoma’s car sometimes did, and it reminded me that very soon, I would not see her or her car anymore. She had gone to the police station to get a statement, which she would take to her visa interview at the American embassy to prove that she had never been convicted of a crime. Jaja had gone with her.
“I suppose we won’t need to protect our doors with metal in America,” Amaka said, as if she knew what I was thinking about. She was fanning herself briskly with a folded newspaper.
“What?”
“Mom’s students broke into her office once and stole exam questions. She told the works department that she wanted metal bars on her office doors and windows, and they said there was no money. You know what she did?”
Amaka turned to look at me; a small smile at the edges of her lips. I shook my head.
“She went to a construction site, and they gave her metal rods for free. Then she asked Obiora and me to help her install them. We drilled holes and fit the rods in with cement, across her windows and doors.”
“Oh,” I said. I wanted to reach out and touch Amaka.
“And then she put up a sign at her door that said EXAM QUESTIONS ARE IN THE BANK.” Amaka smiled and then started to fold and refold the newspaper. “I won’t be happy in America. It won’t be the same.”
“You will drink fresh milk from a bottle. No more stunted tins of condensed milk, no more homemade soybean milk,” I said.
Amaka laughed, a hearty laugh that showed her gap. “You’re funny.”
I had never heard that before. I saved it for later, to ruminate over and over that I had made her laugh, that I could make her laugh.
The rains came then, pouring down in strong sheets that made it impossible to see the garages across the yard. The sky and rain and ground merged into one silver-colored film that seemed to go on and on. We dashed back to the flat and placed buckets on the verandah to catch the rainwater and watched them fill rapidly.
All the children ran out to the yard in their shorts, twirling and dancing, because this was clean rain, the kind that did not come with dust, that did not leave brown stains on clothes. It stopped as quickly as it had started, and the sun came out again, mildly, as if yawning after a nap. The buckets were full; we fished out floating leaves and twigs and took the buckets in.
I saw Father Amadi’s car turning into the compound when we went back out to the verandah. Obiora saw it, too, and asked, laughing, “Is it me or does Father visit more often whenever Kambili is here?”
He and Amaka were still laughing when Father Amadi came up the short flight of stairs. “I know Amaka just said something about me,” he said, sweeping Chima into his arms. He stood backing the setting sun. The sun was red, as if it were blushing, and it made his skin look radiant.
I watched how Chima clung to him, how Amaka’s and Obiora’s eyes shone as they looked up at him. Amaka was asking him about his missionary work in Germany, but I did not hear much of what she said. I was not listening. I felt so many things churning inside me, emotions that made my stomach growl and swirl.
“Do you see Kambili bothering me like this?” Father Amadi asked Amaka. He was looking at me, and I knew he had said that to include me, to get my attention.
“The white missionaries brought us their god,” Amaka was saying. “Which was the same color as them, worshiped in their language and packaged in the boxes they made. Now that we take their god back to them, shouldn’t we at least repackage it?”
Father Amadi smirked and said, “We go mostly to Europe and America, where they are losing priests. So there is really no indigenous culture to pacify, unfortunately.”
“Father, be serious!” Amaka was laughing.
“Only if you will try to be more like Kambili and not bother me so much.”
The phone started to ring, and Amaka made a face at him before walking into the flat.
Father Amadi sat down next to me. “You look worried,” he said. Before I could think of what to say, he reached out and slapped my lower leg. He opened his palm to show me the bloody, squashed mosquito. He had cupped his palm so that it would not hurt too much and yet would kill the mosquito. “It looked so happy feeding on you,” he said, watching me.
“Thank you,” I said.
He reached out and wiped the spot on my leg with a finger. His finger felt warm and alive. I did not realize that my cousins had left; now the verandah was so silent I could hear the sound of the raindrops sliding off the leaves.
“So tell me what you’re thinking about,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What you think will always matter to me, Kambili.”