𝑃𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝐻𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑠

𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒔¹

『••✎••』

Mama brought some ofe nsala up for me a little later, but the aromatic
soup only made me nauseated. After I vomited in the bathroom, I asked
Mama where Jaja was. He had not come in to see me since after lunch.
“In his room. He did not come down for dinner.” She was caressing my
cornrows; she liked to do that, to trace the way strands of hair from different
parts of my scalp meshed and held together. She would keep off plaiting it
until next week. My hair was too thick; it always tightened back into a dense
bunch right after she ran a comb through it. Trying to comb it now would
enrage the monsters already in my head.
“Will you replace the figurines?” I asked. I could smell the chalky
deodorant under her arms. Her brown face, flawless but for the recent jagged
scar on her forehead, was expressionless.
“Kpa,” she said. “I will not replace them.”
Maybe Mama had realized that she would not need the figurines
anymore; that when Papa threw the missal at Jaja, it was not just the figurines
that came tumbling down, it was everything. I was only now realizing it, only
just letting myself think it.
I lay in bed after Mama left and let my mind rake through the past,
through the years when Jaja and Mama and I spoke more with our spirits than
with our lips. Until Nsukka. Nsukka started it all; Aunty Ifeoma’s little garden
next to the verandah of her flat in Nsukka began to lift the silence. Jaja’s
defiance seemed to me now like Aunty Ifeoma’s experimental purple
hibiscus: rare, fragrant with the undertones of freedom, a different kind of
freedom from the one the crowds waving green leaves chanted at Government
Square after the coup. A freedom to be, to do.
But my memories did not start at Nsukka. They started before, when all
the hibiscuses in our front yard were a startling red.I was at my study desk when Mama came into my room, my school
uniforms piled on the crook of her arm. She placed them on my bed. She had
brought them in from the lines in the backyard, where I had hung them to dry
that morning. Jaja and I washed our school uniforms while Sisi washed the
rest of our clothes. We always soaked tiny sections of fabric in the foamy
water first to check if the colors would run, although we knew they would
not. We wanted to spend every minute of the half hour Papa allocated to
uniform washing.
“Thank you, Mama, I was about to bring them in,” I said, getting up to
fold the clothes. It was not proper to let an older person do your chores, but
Mama did not mind; there was so much that she did not mind.
“A drizzle is coming. I did not want them to get wet.” She ran her hand
across my uniform, a gray skirt with a darker-toned waistband, long enough
to show no calf when I wore it. “Nne, you’re going to have a brother or a
sister.”
I stared. She was sitting on my bed, knees close together. “You’re going
to have a baby?”
“Yes.” She smiled, still running her hand over my skirt.
“When?”
“In October. I went to Park Lane yesterday to see my doctor.”
“Thanks be to God.” It was what Jaja and I said, what Papa expected us
to say, when good things happened.
“Yes.” Mama let go of my skirt, almost reluctantly. “God is faithful. You
know after you came and I had the miscarriages, the villagers started to
whisper. The members of our umunna even sent people to your father to urge
him to have children with someone else. So many people had willing
daughters, and many of them were university graduates, too. They might have
borne many sons and taken over our home and driven us out, like Mr.
Ezendu’s second wife did. But your father stayed with me, with us.” She did
not usually say so much at one time. She spoke the way a bird eats, in small
amounts.
“Yes,” I said. Papa deserved praise for not choosing to have more sons
with another woman, of course, for not choosing to take a second wife. But
then, Papa was different. I wished that Mama would not compare him with
Mr. Ezendu, with anybody; it lowered him, soiled him.“They even said somebody had tied up my womb with ogwu.” Mama
shook her head and smiled, the indulgent smile that stretched across her face
when she talked about people who believed in oracles, or when relatives
suggested she consult a witch doctor, or when people recounted tales of
digging up hair tufts and animal bones wrapped in cloth that had been buried
in their front yards to ward off progress. “They do not know that God works
in mysterious ways.”
“Yes,” I said. I held the clothes carefully, making sure the folded edges
were even. “God works in mysterious ways.” I did not know she had been
trying to have a baby since the last miscarriage almost six years ago. I could
not even think of her and Papa together, on the bed they shared, custom-made
and wider than the conventional king-size. When I thought of affection
between them, I thought of them exchanging the sign of peace at Mass, the
way Papa would hold her tenderly in his arms after they had clasped hands.
“Did school go well?” Mama asked, rising. She had asked me earlier.
“Yes.”
“Sisi and I are cooking moi-moi for the sisters; they will be here soon,”
Mama said, before going back downstairs. I followed her and placed my
folded uniforms on the table in the hallway, where Sisi would get them for
ironing.
The sisters, members of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal prayer
group, soon arrived, and their Igbo songs, accompanied by robust hand
clapping, echoed upstairs. They would pray and sing for about half an hour,
and then Mama would interrupt in her low voice, which barely carried
upstairs even with my door open, to tell them she had prepared a “little
something” for them. When Sisi started to bring in the platters of moi-moi
and jollof rice and fried chicken, the women would gently chastise Mama.
“Sister Beatrice, what is it? Why have you done this? Are we not content with
the anara we are offered in other sisters’ homes? You shouldn’t have, really.”
Then a piping voice would say, “Praise the Lord!” dragging out the first word
as long as she could. The “Alleluia” response would push against the walls of
my room, against the glass furnishings of the living room. Then they would
pray, asking God to reward Sister Beatrice’s generosity, and add more
blessings to the many she already had. Then the clink-clink-clink of forks and
spoons scraping against plates would echo over the house. Mama never used
plastic cutlery, no matter how big the group was.
They had just started to pray over the food when I heard Jaja bound upthe stairs. I knew he would come into my room first because Papa was not
home. If Papa was home, Jaja would go into his own room first to change.
“Ke kwanu?” I asked when he came in. His school uniform, blue shorts,
and white shirt with the St. Nicholas badge blazing from his left breast still
had the ironed lines running down the front and back. He was voted neatest
junior boy last year, and Papa had hugged him so tight that Jaja thought his
back had snapped.
“Fine.” He stood by my desk, flipped idly through the Introductory
Technology textbook open before me. “What did you eat?”
“Garri.”
I wish we still had lunch together, Jaja said with his eyes.
“Me, too,” I said, aloud.
Before, our driver, Kevin, would pick me up first at Daughters of the
Immaculate Heart, and then we would drive over to get Jaja at St. Nicholas.
Jaja and I would have lunch together when we got home. Now, because Jaja
was in the new gifted student program at St. Nicholas, he attended after-
school lessons. Papa had revised his schedule but not mine, and I could not
wait to have lunch with him. I was to have had lunch, taken my siesta, and
started studying by the time Jaja came home.
Still, Jaja knew what I ate for lunch every day. We had a menu on the
kitchen wall that Mama changed twice a month. But he always asked me,
anyway. We did that often, asking each other questions whose answers we
already knew. Perhaps it was so that we would not ask the other questions, the
ones whose answers we did not want to know.
“I have three assignments to do,” Jaja said, turning to leave.
“Mama is pregnant,” I said. Jaja came back and sat down at the edge of
my bed. “She told you?”
“Yes. She’s due in October.”
Jaja closed his eyes for a while and then opened them. “We will take care
of the baby; we will protect him.”
I knew that Jaja meant from Papa, but I did not say anything about
protecting the baby. Instead, I asked, “How do you know it will be a he?”
“I feel it. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”Jaja sat on my bed for a while longer before he went downstairs to have
lunch; I pushed my textbook aside, looked up, and stared at my daily
schedule, pasted on the wall above me. Kambili was written in bold letters on
top of the white sheet of paper, just as Jaja was written on the schedule above
Jaja’s desk in his room. I wondered when Papa would draw up a schedule for
the baby, my new brother, if he would do it right after the baby was born or
wait until he was a toddler. Papa liked order. It showed even in the schedules
themselves, the way his meticulously drawn lines, in black ink, cut across
each day, separating study from siesta, siesta from family time, family time
from eating, eating from prayer, prayer from sleep. He revised them often.
When we were in school, we had less siesta time and more study time, even
on weekends. When we were on vacation, we had a little more family time, a
little more time to read newspapers, play chess or monopoly, and listen to the
radio.
It was during family time the next day, a Saturday, that the coup
happened. Papa had just checkmated Jaja when we heard the martial music on
the radio, the solemn strains making us stop to listen. A general with a strong
Hausa accent came on and announced that there had been a coup and that we
had a new government. We would be told shortly who our new head of state
was.
Papa pushed the chessboard aside and excused himself to use the phone
in his study. Jaja and Mama and I waited for him, silently. I knew he was
calling his editor, Ade Coker, perhaps to tell him something about covering
the coup. When he came back, we drank the mango juice, which Sisi served
in tall glasses, while he talked about the coup. He looked sad; his rectangular
lips seemed to sag. Coups begat coups, he said, telling us about the bloody
coups of the sixties, which ended up in civil war just after he left Nigeria to
study in England. A coup always began a vicious cycle. Military men would
always overthrow one another, because they could, because they were all
power drunk.
Of course, Papa told us, the politicians were corrupt, and the Standard
had written many stories about the cabinet ministers who stashed money in
foreign bank accounts, money meant for paying teachers’salaries and
building roads. But what we Nigerians needed was not soldiers ruling us,
what we needed was a renewed democracy. Renewed Democracy. It sounded
important, the way he said it, but then most of what Papa said sounded
important. He liked to lean back and look upwards when he talked, as though
he were searching for something in the air. I would focus on his lips, the
movement, and sometimes I forgot myself, sometimes I wanted to stay likethat forever, listening to his voice, to the important things he said. It was the
same way I felt when he smiled, his face breaking open like a coconut with
the brilliant white meat inside.
The day after the coup, before we left for evening benediction at St.
Agnes, we sat in the living room and read the newspapers; our vendor
delivered the major papers every morning, four copies each, on Papa’s orders.
We read the Standard first. Only the Standard had a critical editorial, calling
on the new military government to quickly implement a return to democracy
plan. Papa read one of the articles in Nigeria Today out aloud, an opinion
column by a writer who insisted that it was indeed time for a military
president, since the politicians had gone out of control and our economy was
in a mess.
“The Standard would never write this nonsense,” Papa said, putting the
paper down. “Not to talk of calling the man a ‘president.’”
“‘President’ assumes he was elected,” Jaja said. “‘Head of state’ is the
right term.”
Papa smiled, and I wished I had said that before Jaja had.
“The Standard editorial is well done,” Mama said.
“Ade is easily the best out there,” Papa said, with an offhand pride, while
scanning another paper. “‘Change of Guard.’ What a headline. They are all
afraid. Writing about how corrupt the civilian government was, as if they
think the military will not be corrupt. This country is going down, way
down.”
“God will deliver us,” I said, knowing Papa would like my saying that.
“Yes, yes,” Papa said, nodding. Then he reached out and held my hand,
and I felt as though my mouth were full of melting sugar.In the following weeks, the newspapers we read during family time
sounded different, more subdued. The Standard, too, was different; it was
more critical, more questioning than it used to be. Even the drive to school
was different. The first week after the coup, Kevin plucked green tree
branches every morning and stuck them to the car, lodged above the number
plate, so that the demonstrators at Government Square would let us drive past.
The green branches meant Solidarity. Our branches never looked as bright as
the demonstrators’, though, and sometimes as we drove past, I wondered what
it would be like to join them, chanting “Freedom,” standing in the way of
cars.
In later weeks, when Kevin drove past Ogui Road, there were soldiers at
the roadblock near the market, walking around, caressing their long guns.
They stopped some cars and searched them. Once, I saw a man kneeling on
the road beside his Peugeot 504, with his hands raised high in the air.
But nothing changed at home. Jaja and I still followed our schedules,
still asked each other questions whose answers we already knew. The only
change was Mama’s belly: it started to bulge, softly and subtly. At first it
looked like a deflated football, but by Pentecost Sunday, it had elevated her
red and gold-embroidered church wrapper just enough to hint that it was not
just the layer of cloth underneath or the knotted end of the wrapper. The altar
was decorated in the same shade of red as Mama’s wrapper. Red was the color
of Pentecost. The visiting priest said Mass in a red robe that seemed too short
for him. He was young, and he looked up often as he read the gospel, his
brown eyes piercing the congregation. He kissed the Bible slowly when he
was done. It could have seemed dramatic if someone else had done it, but
with him it was not. It seemed real. He was newly ordained, waiting to be
assigned a parish, he told us. He and Father Benedict had a close mutual
friend, and he was pleased when Father Benedict asked him to visit and say
Mass. He did not say how beautiful our St. Agnes altar was, though, with its
steps that glowed like polished ice blocks. Or that it was one of the best altars
in Enugu, perhaps even in the whole of Nigeria. He did not suggest, as all the
other visiting priests had, that God’s presence dwelled more in St. Agnes, that
the iridescent saints on the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows stopped
God from leaving. And halfway through his sermon, he broke into an Igbo
song: “Bunie ya enu…”
The congregation drew in a collective breath, some sighed, some had
their mouths in a big O. They were used to Father Benedict’s sparse sermons,
to Father Benedict’s pinch-your-nose monotone. Slowly they joined in. Iwatched Papa purse his lips. He looked sideways to see if Jaja and I were
singing and nodded approvingly when he saw our sealed lips.
After Mass, we stood outside the church entrance, waiting while Papa
greeted the people crowded around him.
“Good morning, praise God,” he said, before shaking hands with the
men, hugging the women, patting the toddlers, and tugging at the babies’
cheeks. Some of the men whispered to him, Papa whispered back, and then
the men thanked him, shaking his hand with both of theirs before leaving.
Papa finally finished the greetings, and, with the wide churchyard now mostly
emptied of the cars that had cluttered it like teeth in a mouth, we headed to
our car.
“That young priest, singing in the sermon like a Godless leader of one of
these Pentecostal churches that spring up everywhere like mushrooms. People
like him bring trouble to the church. We must remember to pray for him,”
Papa said, as he unlocked the Mercedes door and placed the missal and
bulletin on the seat before turning toward the parish residence. We always
dropped in to visit Father Benedict after Mass.
“Let me stay in the car and wait, biko,” Mama said, leaning against the
Mercedes. “I feel vomit in my throat.”
Papa turned to stare at her. I held my breath. It seemed a long moment,
but it might have been only seconds.
“Are you sure you want to stay in the car?” Papa asked.
Mama was looking down; her hands were placed on her belly, to hold the
wrapper from untying itself or to keep her bread and tea breakfast down. “My
body does not feel right,” she mumbled.
“I asked if you were sure you wanted to stay in the car.”
Mama looked up. “I’ll come with you. It’s really not that bad.”
Papa’s face did not change. He waited for her to walk toward him, and
then he turned and they started to walk to the priest’s house. Jaja and I
followed. I watched Mama as we walked. Till then I had not noticed how
drawn she looked. Her skin, usually the smooth brown of groundnut paste,
looked like the liquid had been sucked out of it, ashen, like the color of
cracked harmattan soil. Jaja spoke to me with his eyes: What if she vomits? I
would hold up my dress hems so Mama could throw up into it, so we
wouldn’t make a big mess in Father Benedict’s house.The house looked as though the architect had realized too late that he
was designing residential quarters, not a church. The arch that led to the
dining area looked like an altar entrance; the alcove with the cream telephone
looked ready to receive the Blessed Sacrament; the tiny study room off the
living room could have been a sacristy crammed with holy books and Mass
vestments and extra chalices.
“Brother Eugene!” Father Benedict said. His pale face broke into a smile
when he saw Papa. He was at the dining table, eating. There were slices of
boiled yam, like lunch, but then a plate of fried eggs, too, more like breakfast.
He asked us to join him. Papa refused on our behalf and then went up to the
table to talk in muted tones.
“How are you, Beatrice?” Father Benedict asked, raising his voice so
Mama would hear from the living room. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine, Father. It’s only my allergies because of the weather, you
know, the clash of harmattan and rainy season.”
“Kambili and Jaja, did you enjoy Mass, then?”
“Yes, Father.” Jaja and I spoke at the same time.
We left shortly afterward, a little sooner than on the usual visit to Father
Benedict. Papa said nothing in the car, his jaw moving as if he were gritting
his teeth. We all stayed silent and listened to the “Ave Maria” on the cassette
player. When we got home, Sisi had Papa’s tea set out, in the china teapot
with a tiny, ornate handle. Papa placed his missal and bulletin on the dining
table and sat down. Mama hovered by him.
“Let me pour your tea,” she offered, although she never served Papa’s
tea.
Papa ignored her and poured his tea, and then he told Jaja and me to take
sips. Jaja took a sip, placed the cup back on the saucer. Papa picked it up and
gave it to me. I held it with both hands, took a sip of the Lipton tea with sugar
and milk, and placed it back on the saucer.
“Thank you, Papa,” I said, feeling the love burn my tongue.
We went upstairs to change, Jaja and Mama and I. Our steps on the stairs
were as measured and as silent as our Sundays: the silence of waiting until
Papa was done with his siesta so we could have lunch; the silence of
reflection time, when Papa gave us a scripture passage or a book by one of the
early church fathers to read and meditate on; the silence of evening rosary; the
silence of driving to the church for benediction afterward. Even our familytime on Sundays was quiet, without chess games or newspaper discussions,
more in tune with the Day of Rest.
“Maybe Sisi can cook lunch by herself today,” Jaja said, when we got to
the top of the curved staircase. “You should rest before lunch, Mama.”
Mama was going to say something, but then she stopped, her hand flew
to her mouth, and she hurried into her room. I stayed to hear the sharp groans
of vomiting from deep in her throat before I went into my room.
Lunch was jollof rice, fist-size chunks of azu fried until the bones were
crisp, and ngwo-ngwo. Papa ate most of the ngwo-ngwo, his spoon swooping
through the spicy broth in the glass bowl. Silence hung over the table like the
blue-black clouds in the middle of rainy season. Only the chirping of the
ochiri birds outside interrupted it. Every year, they arrived before the first
rains came and nested on the avocado tree right outside the dining room. Jaja
and I sometimes found fallen nests on the ground, nests made of entwined
twigs and dried grass and bits of thread that Mama had used to plait my hair,
which the ochiri picked out of the backyard dustbin.
I finished lunch first. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Papa. Thank you,
Mama.” I folded my arms and waited until everybody was done so we could
pray. I did not look at anybody’s face; I focused instead on the picture of
Grandfather that hung on the opposite wall.
When Papa started the prayer, his voice quavered more than usual. He
prayed for the food first, then he asked God to forgive those who had tried to
thwart His will, who had put selfish desires first and had not wanted to visit
His servant after Mass. Mama’s “Amen!” resounded throughout the room.
I WAS IN MY ROOM after lunch, reading James chapter five because I would
talk about the biblical roots of the anointing of the sick during family time,
when I heard the sounds. Swift, heavy thuds on my parents’ hand-carved
bedroom door. I imagined the door had gotten stuck and Papa was trying to
open it. If I imagined it hard enough, then it would be true. I sat down, closed
my eyes, and started to count. Counting made it seem not that long, made it
seem not that bad. Sometimes it was over before I even got to twenty. I was at
nineteen when the sounds stopped. I heard the door open. Papa’s gait on the
stairs sounded heavier, more awkward, than usual.
I stepped out of my room just as Jaja came out of his. We stood at the
landing and watched Papa descend. Mama was slung over his shoulder like
the jute sacks of rice his factory workers bought in bulk at the Seme Border.

『••✎••』