Purple Hibiscus

“I will turn into a bat if Father Amadi says yes,” Amaka said.

But he did say yes. When Aunty Ifeoma hung up the phone after talking to him and said he would be coming with us, Amaka said, “It’s because of Kambili. He would never have come if not for Kambili.”

Aunty Ifeoma drove us to the dusty village about two hours away. I sat in the back with Father Amadi, separated from him by the space in the middle. He and Amaka sang as we drove; the undulating road made the car sway from side to side, and I imagined that it was dancing. Sometimes I joined in the singing, and other times I remained quiet and listened, wondering what it would feel like if I moved closer, if I covered the space between us and rested my head on his shoulder.

When we finally turned into the dirt road with the handpainted sign that read WELCOME TO AOKPE APPARITION GROUND, all I saw at first was chaos. Hundreds of cars, many bearing scrawled signs that read CATHOLICS ON PILGRIMAGE, jostled to fit into a tiny village that Aunty Ifeoma said had not known as many as ten cars until a local girl started to see the vision of the Beautiful Woman. People were packed so close that the smell of other people became as familiar as their own. Women crashed to their knees. Men shouted prayers. Rosaries rustled. People pointed and shouted, “See, there, on the tree, that’s Our Lady!” Others pointed at the glowing sun. “There she is!”

We stood underneath a huge flame-of-the-forest tree. It was in bloom, its flowers fanning out on wide branches and the ground underneath covered with petals the color of fire. When the young girl was led out, the flame-of-the-forest swayed and flowers rained down. The girl was slight and solemn, dressed in white, and strong-looking men stood around her so she would not be trampled. She had hardly passed us when other trees nearby started to quiver with a frightening vigor, as if someone were shaking them. The ribbons that cordoned off the apparition area shook, too. Yet there was no wind. The sun turned white, the color and shape of the host. And then I saw her, the Blessed Virgin: an image in the pale sun, a red glow on the back of my hand, a smile on the face of the rosary-bedecked man whose arm rubbed against mine. She was everywhere.

I wanted to stay longer, but Aunty Ifeoma said we had to leave, because it would be impossible to drive out if we waited until most people were leaving. She bought rosaries and scapulars and little vials of holy water from the vendors as we walked to the car.

“It doesn’t matter if Our Lady appeared or not,” Amaka said, when we got to the car. “Aokpe will always be special because it was the reason Kambili and Jaja first came to Nsukka.”

“Does that mean you don’t believe in the apparition?” Father Amadi asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“No, I didn’t say that,” Amaka said. “What about you? Do you believe it?”

Father Amadi said nothing; he seemed to be focused on rolling the window down to get a buzzing fly out of the car.

“I felt the Blessed Virgin there. I felt her,” I blurted out. How could anyone not believe after what we had seen? Or hadn’t they seen it and felt it, too?

Father Amadi turned to study me; I saw him from the corner of my eye. There was a gentle smile on his face. Aunty Ifeoma glanced at me, then turned back and faced the road.

“Kambili is right,” she said. “Something from God was happening there.”

I WENT WITH FATHER AMADI to say his good-byes to the families on campus. Many of the lecturers’ children clung tightly to him, as if the tighter they held him, the less likely he could break free and leave Nsukka. We did not say much to each other. We sang Igbo chorus songs from his cassette player. It was one of those songs—“Abum onye n’uwa, onye ka m bu n’uwa”—that eased the dryness in my throat as we got into his car, and I said, “I love you.”

He turned to me with an expression that I had never seen, his eyes almost sad. He leaned over the gear and pressed his face to mine. I wanted our lips to meet and hold, but he moved his face away. “You are almost sixteen, Kambili. You are beautiful. You will find more love than you will need in a lifetime,” he said. And I did not know whether to laugh or cry. He was wrong. He was so wrong.

As he drove me home, I looked out of the open window at the compounds we drove past. The gaping holes in the hedges had closed up, and green branches snaked across to meet each other. I wished that I could see the backyards so I could occupy myself with imagining the lives behind the hanging clothes and fruit trees and swings. I wished I could think about something, anything, so that I would no longer feel. I wished I could blink away the liquid in my eyes.

When I got back, Aunty Ifeoma asked if I was all right, if something was wrong.

“I’m fine, Aunty,” I said.

She was looking at me as though she knew I was not fine. “Are you sure, nne?”

“Yes, Aunty.”

“Brighten up, inugo? And please pray for my visa interview. I will leave for Lagos tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I said, and I felt a new, numbing rush of sadness. “I will, Aunty.” Yet I knew that I would not, could not, pray that she get the visa. I knew it was what she wanted, that she did not have many other choices. Or any other choices. Still, I would not pray that she get the visa. I could not pray for what I did not want.

Amaka was in the bedroom, lying in bed, listening to music with the cassette player next to her ear. I sat on the bed and hoped she would not ask me how my day with Father Amadi had gone. She didn’t say anything, just kept nodding to the music.

“You are singing along,” she said after a while.

“What?”

“You were just singing along with Fela.”

“I was?” I looked at Amaka and wondered if she was imagining things.

“How will I get Fela tapes in America, eh? Just how will I get them?”

I wanted to tell Amaka that I was sure she would find Fela tapes in America, and any other tapes that she wanted, but I didn’t. It would mean I assumed that Aunty Ifeoma would get the visa—and besides, I was not sure Amaka wanted to hear that.

MY STOMACH WAS UNSTEADY until Aunty Ifeoma came back from Lagos. We had been waiting for her on the verandah, although there was power and we could have been inside, watching TV The insects did not buzz around us, perhaps because the kerosene lamp was not on or perhaps because they sensed the tension. Instead, they flitted around the electric bulb above the door, making surprised thuds when they bumped against it. Amaka had brought the fan out, and its whir created music with the hum of the refrigerator inside. When a car stopped in front of the flat, Obiora jumped up and ran out.