Purple Hibiscus

“I worry about your father,” Mama said, before I gave the phone to Jaja. “I worry about your father.”

Aunty Ifeoma seemed worried, too, because after the phone call, she went out and bought a copy of the Guardian although she never bought newspapers. They cost too much; she read them at the paper stands when she had the time. The story of soldiers closing down the Standard was tucked into the middle page, next to advertisements for women’s shoes imported from Italy.

“Uncle Eugene would have run it on the front page of his paper,” Amaka said, and I wondered if the inflection in her voice was pride.

When Papa called later, he asked to talk to Aunty Ifeoma first. Afterward he talked to Jaja and then me. He said he was fine, that everything was fine, that he missed us and loved us very much. He did not mention the Standard or what had happened to the editorial offices. After we hung up, Aunty Ifeoma said, “Your father wants you to stay here a few days longer,” and Jaja smiled so widely I saw dimples I did not even know he had.

THE PHONE RANG EARLY, before any of us had taken a morning bath. My mouth went dry because I was sure it was about Papa, that something had happened to him. The soldiers had gone to the house; they had shot him to make sure he would never publish anything again. I waited for Aunty Ifeoma to call Jaja and me, though I tightened my fist and willed her not to. She stayed for a few moments on the phone, and when she came out, she looked downcast. Her laughter did not ring out as often for the rest of the day, and she snapped at Chima when he wanted to sit next to her, saying, “Leave me alone! Nekwa anya, you are no longer a baby.” One half of her lower lip disappeared into her mouth, and her jaw quivered as she chewed.

Father Amadi dropped by during dinner. He pulled a chair from the living room and sat, sipping water from a glass Amaka had brought him.

“I played football at the stadium and afterward I took some of th

e boys to town, for akara and fried yams,” he said, when Amaka asked what he had done today.

“Why didn’t you tell me you would be playing today, Father?” Obiora asked.

“I’m sorry I forgot to, but I will pick you and Jaja up next weekend so we can play.” The music of his voice lowered in apology. I could not help staring at him, because his voice pulled me and because I did not know a priest could play football. It seemed so ungodly, so common. Father Amadi’s eyes met mine across the table, and I looked away quickly.

“Perhaps Kambili will play with us also,” he said. Hearing my name in his voice, in that melody, made me feel taut inside. I filled my mouth, as if I might have said something but for the food I had to chew. “Amaka used to play with us when I first came here, but now she spends her time listening to African music and dreaming unrealistic dreams.”

My cousins laughed, Amaka the loudest, and Jaja smiled. But Aunty Ifeoma did not laugh. She chewed her food in little bites; her eyes were distant.

“Ifeoma, is something wrong?” Father Amadi asked.

She shook her head and sighed, as though she had just realized that she was not alone. “I got a message from home today. Our father is sick. They said he did not rise well three mornings in a row. I want to bring him here.”

“Ezi okwu?” Father Amadi’s brows furrowed. “Yes, you should bring him here.”

“Papa-Nnukwu is sick?” Amaka asked shrilly. “Mom, when did you know?”

“This morning, his neighbor called. She is a good woman, Nwamgba, she went all the way to Ukpo to find a phone.”

“You should have told us!” Amaka shouted.

“O gini? Have I not told you now?” Aunty Ifeoma snapped.

“When can we go to Abba, Mom?” Obiora asked, calmly, and at that moment, as in many others I had observed since we came, he seemed so much older than Jaja.

“I don’t have enough fuel in the car to reach even Ninth Mile, and I don’t know when fuel will come. I cannot afford to charter a taxi. If I take public transport, how will I bring back a sick old man in those buses so packed with people your face is in the next person’s smelly armpit?” Aunty Ifeoma shook her head. “I am tired. I am so tired…”

“We have some emergency fuel reserves in the chaplaincy,” Father Amadi said quietly. “I am sure I could get you a gallon. Ekwuzina, don’t sound that way.”

Aunty Ifeoma nodded and thanked Father Amadi. But her face did not brighten, and later, when we said the rosary, her voice did not rise when she sang. I struggled to meditate on the joyful Mysteries, all the time wondering where Papa-Nnukwu would sleep when he came. There were few choices in the small flat—the living room was already full with the boys, and Aunt Ifeoma’s room was so busy, serving as food store and library and bedroom for her and Chima. It would have to be the other bedroom, Amaka’s—and mine. I wondered if I would have to confess that I had shared a room with a heathen. I paused then, in my meditation, to pray that Papa would never find out that Papa-Nnukwu had visited and that I had shared a room with him.

At the end of the five decades, before we said the Hail Holy Queen, Aunty Ifeoma prayed for Papa-Nnukwu. She asked God to stretch a healing hand over him as he had stretched over the apostle Peter’s mother-in-law. She asked the Blessed Virgin to pray for him. She asked the angels to take charge of him.

My “Amen” was a little delayed, a little surprised. When Papa prayed for Papa-Nnukwu, he asked only that God convert him and save him from the raging fires of hell.

FATHER AMADI CAME EARLY the next morning, looking even more unpriestly than before, in khaki shorts that stopped just below his knees. He had not shaved, and in the clear morning sunlight, his stubble looked like tiny dots drawn on his jaw. He parked his car next to Aunty Ifeoma’s station wagon and took out a can of petrol and a garden hose that had been cut to a quarter of its length.

“Let me do the sucking, Father,” Obiora said.

“Make sure you don’t swallow,” Father Amadi said. Obiora inserted one end of the hose in the can and then enclosed the other end in his mouth. I watched his cheeks inflate like a balloon and then deflate. He swiftly took the hose out of his mouth and inserted it into the stations wagon’s petrol tank. He was sputtering and coughing.

“Did you swallow too much?” Father Amadi asked, tapping Obiora’s back.

“No,” Obiora said, between coughs. He looked proud.