The Confession Booth

1

Almost 4 years after Palm Sunday

I walk down the hall to Mama's room with her breakfast tray, hoping that maybe today, she will miraculously turn back to the old Mama again instead of sitting on Papa's old leather couch looking out the window. Ever since Papa died, she's been staring at the purple hibiscuses in the backyard almost every single day. By now, the hibiscuses are starting to turn brown and wither away, yet Mama still looks out the window with the same gaze she had six months ago they first bloomed.

I knock on the door to the bedroom,

"Mama? It's Kambili, I have your breakfast."

No reply, as expected.

Balancing the tray on my arm, I pushed open the door to reveal Mama, pale and sitting on her bed, staring out the window. Her mind as waning as the dead flowers outside. Her hands folded neatly on her lap. Mama turned her body slightly toward my direction but her eyes remained in the same position.

"Mama, good morning, I brought you breakfast!"

Mama's eyes landed on me as I set the tray on her bed, her brown eyes communicates nothing. Emptiness filled her dark pupils. After a moment, she opened her mouth, her soft raspy voice was barely audible.

"Thank you."

Then she turned back to her window.

"Would you like to go outside today? It is a good day, a little chilly, but the sun is warm."

Mama hasn't left the house in three months, the last time she went outside was to say goodbye to Jaja, who was heading off to college in southern Nigeria. Turns out Jaja had taken engineering courses in prison and is now studying to become a mechanical engineer. By then, the purple hibiscuses had bloomed and filled the garden with a brilliant purple.

Without looking, Mama spoke again,

"They're dead."

"That's too bad...Maybe Jaja will replant them next year and we can help him."

I replied, hoping Mama would crack a smile or nod. Instead she stayed silent. I waited for a moment longer incase she changed her mind and wanted to continue the conversation. After realizing that she wasn't going to say anything, I walked out of her bedroom and left her with her food.

As I'm heading in the direction of my room, I reach into my pocket to run my fingers over Amadi's
latest letter, my fingers roam over every groove, every indent where his pen had pressed too hard, every period, every comma. I slide my thumb over to where he signed his name, Yours truly, Amadi. I remember the first time he stopped signing his name "Father Amadi", I had just turned 18 and he sent me a sterling silver necklace from Germany as a birthday present.

I arrive at the door of my bedroom and paused, realizing that by now, Amadi's letter should already be in our mailbox. I turned around and pushed open the door to outside, my hand shook while opening the mailbox, I fingered through all the junk mails and my heart soared as my eyes landed on his letter. There it was, in his perfect cursive, To Kambili Achike.

I smile as another letter caught my eye, one with familiar blue envelope, I knew who it was from before I read the address. While Jaja usually called me using the family phone, he still writes to Mama. "It's so she can physically hold it." He had once explained.

I rush back into the house, after setting the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter, I made my way up to Mama's room once again.

"Mama! Look Jaja wrote to you again!" I exclaimed while holding up the blue envelope