𝑃𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝐻𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑠

𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒔¹¹

『••✎••』

With his upper body bare, his shoulders were a broad square. I did not look down at
his tank top on my lap as I inched my hand ever so slowly toward it. My eyes
were on the football field, on Father Amadi’s running legs, on the flying
white-and-black football, on the many legs of the boys, which all looked like
one leg. My hand had finally touched the top on my lap, moving over it
tentatively as though it could breathe, as though it were a part of Father
Amadi, when he blew a whistle for a water break. He brought peeled oranges
and water wrapped into tight cone shapes in plastic bags from his car. They all
settled down on the grass to eat the oranges, and I watched Father Amadi
laugh loudly with his head thrown back, leaning to rest his elbows on the
grass. I wondered if the boys felt the same way I did with him, that they were
all he could see.
I held on to his tank top while I watched the rest of the play. A cool wind
had started to blow, chilling the sweat on my body, when Father Amadi blew
the final whistle, three times with the last time drawn out. Then the boys
clustered around him, heads bowed, while he prayed. “Good-bye, Father!”
echoed around as he made his way toward me. There was something
confident about his gait, like a rooster in charge of all the neighborhood hens.
In the car, he played a tape. It was a choir singing Igbo worship songs. I
knew the first song: Mama sang it sometimes when Jaja and I brought our
report cards home. Father Amadi sang along. His voice was smoother than the
lead singer’s on the tape. When the first song ended, he lowered the volume
and asked, “Did you enjoy the game?”
“Yes.”
“I see Christ in their faces, in the boys’ faces.”
I looked at him. I could not reconcile the blond Christ hanging on the
burnished cross in St. Agnes and the sting-scarred legs of those boys.
“They live in Ugwu Oba. Most of them don’t go to school anymore
because their families can’t afford it. Ekwueme—remember him, in the red
shirt?”
I nodded, although I could not remember. All the shirts had seemed
similar and colorless.
“His father was a driver here in the university. But they retrenched him,
and Ekwueme had to drop out of Nsukka High School. He is working as a bus
conductor now, and he is doing very well. They inspire me, those boys.”
Father Amadi stopped talking to join in the chorus. “I na-asi m esona ya! I
na-asi m esona ya!”I nodded in time to the chorus. We really did not need the music, though,
because his voice was melody enough. I felt that I was at home, that I was
where I had been meant to be for a long time. Father Amadi sang for a while;
then he lowered the volume to a whisper again. “You haven’t asked me a
single question,” he said.
“I don’t know what to ask.”
“You should have learned the art of questioning from Amaka. Why does
the tree’s shoot go up and the root down? Why is there a sky? What is life?
Just why?”
I laughed. It sounded strange, as if I were listening to the recorded
laughter of a stranger being played back. I was not sure I had ever heard
myself laugh.
“Why did you become a priest?” I blurted out, then wished I had not
asked, that the bubbles in my throat had not let that through. Of course he had
gotten the call, the same call that all the Reverend Sisters in school talked
about when they asked us to always listen for the call when we prayed.
Sometimes I imagined God calling me, his rumbling voice British-accented.
He would not say my name right; like Father Benedict, he would place the
emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first.
“I wanted to be a doctor at first. Then I went to church once and heard
this priest speak and I was changed forever,” Father Amadi said.
“Oh.”
“I was joking,” Father Amadi glanced at me. He looked surprised I did
not realize that it was a joke. “It’s a lot more complicated than that, Kambili. I
had many questions, growing up. The priesthood came closest to answering
them.”
I wondered what questions they were and if Father Benedict, too, had
those questions. Then I thought, with a fierce, unreasonable sadness, how
Father Amadi’s smooth skin would not be passed on to a child, how his
square shoulders would not balance the legs of his toddler son who wanted to
touch the ceiling fan.
“Ewo, I am late for a chaplaincy council meeting,” he said, looking at the
clock. “I’ll drop you off and leave right away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? I’ve spent an enjoyable afternoon with you. You must come withme to the stadium again. I will tie your hands and legs up and carry you if I
have to.” He laughed.
I stared at the dashboard, at the blue-and-gold Legion of Mary sticker on
it. Didn’t he know that I did not want him to leave, ever? That I did not need
to be persuaded to go to the stadium, or anywhere, with him? The afternoon
played across my mind as I got out of the car in front of the flat. I had smiled,
run, laughed. My chest was filled with something like bath foam. Light. The
lightness was so sweet I tasted it on my tongue, the sweetness of an overripe
bright yellow cashew fruit.
Aunty Ifeoma was standing behind Papa-Nnukwu on the verandah,
rubbing his shoulders. I greeted them.
“Kambili, nno,” Papa-Nnukwu said. He looked tired; his eyes were dull.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, smiling.
“Yes, Aunty.”
“Your father called this afternoon,” she said, in English.
I stared at her, studying the black mole above her lip, willing her to laugh
her loud, cackling laugh and tell me it was a joke. Papa never called in the
afternoon. Besides, he had called before he went to work, so why had he
called again? Something had to be wrong.
“Somebody from the village—I’m sure it was a member of our extended
family—told him that I had come to take your grandfather from the village,”
Aunty Ifeoma said, still in English so Papa-Nnukwu would not understand.
“Your father said I should have told him, that he deserved to know that your
grandfather was here in Nsukka. He went on and on about a heathen being in
the same house as his children.” Aunty Ifeoma shook her head as if the way
Papa felt were just a minor eccentricity. But it was not. Papa would be
outraged that neither Jaja nor I had mentioned it when he called. My head was
filling up quickly with blood or water or sweat. Whatever it was, I knew I
would faint when my head got full.
“He said he would come here tomorrow to take you both back, but I
calmed him down. I told him that I would take you and Jaja home the day
after tomorrow, and I think he accepted that. Let’s hope we find fuel,” Aunty
Ifeoma said.
“Okay, Aunty.” I turned to go into the flat, feeling dizzy.
“Oh, and he has gotten his editor out of prison,” Aunty Ifeoma said. ButI hardly heard her.
AMAKA SHOOK ME although her movements had already woken me. I had
been teetering on that boundary that divides sleep and wakefulness, imagining
Papa coming to get us himself, imagining the rage in his red-tinged eyes, the
burst of Igbo from his mouth.
“Let’s go and fetch water. Jaja and Obiora are already out,” Amaka said,
stretching. She said that every morning now. She let me carry one container in
now, too.
“Nekwa, Papa-Nnukwu is still asleep. He will be upset that the medicines
made him oversleep and he did not wake to watch the sun rise.” She bent and
shook him gently.
“Papa-Nnukwu, Papa-Nnukwu, kunie.” She turned him over slowly
when he did not stir. His wrapper had come undone to reveal a pair of white
shorts with a frayed elastic band at the waist. “Mom! Mom!” Amaka
screamed. She moved a hand over Papa-Nnukwu’s chest, feverishly,
searching for a heartbeat. “Mom!”
Aunty Ifeoma hurried into the room. She had not tied her wrapper over
her nightdress, and I could make out the downward slope of her breasts, the
slight swell of her belly underneath the sheer fabric. She sank to her knees
and clutched Papa-Nnukwu’s body, shaking it.
“Nna anyi! Nna anyi!” Her voice was desperately loud, as if raising it
would make Papa-Nnukwu hear better and respond. “Nna anyi!” When she
stopped speaking, grasping Papa-Nnukwu’s wrist, resting her head on his
chest, the silence was broken only by the crow of the neighbor’s cock. I held
my breath—it suddenly seemed too loud for Aunty Ifeoma to hear Papa-
Nnukwu’s heartbeat.
“Ewuu, he has fallen asleep. He has fallen asleep,” Aunty Ifeoma said,
finally. She buried her head on Papa-Nnukwu’s shoulder, rocking back and
forth.
Amaka pulled at her mother. “Stop it, Mom. Give him mouth to mouth!
Stop it!”
Aunty Ifeoma kept rocking, and for a moment, because Papa-Nnukwu’s
body moved back and forth as well, I wondered if Aunty Ifeoma was wrong
and Papa-Nnukwu was only really asleep.
“Nna m o! My father!” Aunty Ifeoma’s voice rang out so pure and high itseemed to come from the ceiling. It was the same tone, the same piercing
depth, that I heard sometimes in Abba when mourners danced past our house,
holding the photograph of a dead family member, shouting.
“Nna m o!” Aunty Ifeoma screamed, still clutching Papa-Nnukwu.
Amaka made feeble attempts to pull her off. Obiora and Jaja dashed into the
room. And I imagined our forebears a century ago, the ancestors Papa-
Nnukwu prayed to, charging in to defend their hamlet, coming back with
lolling heads on long sticks.
“What is it, Mom?” Obiora asked. The bottom of his trousers clung to
his leg where water from the tap had splashed on it.
“Papa-Nnukwu is alive,” Jaja said in English, with authority, as if doing
so would make his words come true. The same tone God must have used
when He said “Let there be Light.” Jaja wore only the bottom of his pajamas,
which was also splattered with water. For the first time, I noticed the sparse
hair on his chest.
“Nna m o!” Aunty Ifeoma was still clutching Papa-Nnukwu.
Obiora started to breathe in a noisy, rasping way. He bent over Aunty
Ifeoma and grasped her, slowly prying her away from Papa-Nnukwu’s body.
“O zugo, it is enough, Mom. He has joined the others.” His voice had a
strange timber. He helped Aunty Ifeoma up and led her to sit on the bed. She
had the same blank look in her eyes that Amaka had, standing there, staring
down at Papa-Nnukwu’s form.
“I will call Doctor Nduoma,” Obiora said.
Jaja bent down and covered Papa-Nnukwu’s body with the wrapper, but
he did not cover his face even though the wrapper was long enough. I wanted
to go over and touch Papa-Nnukwu, touch the white tufts of hair that Amaka
oiled, smooth the wrinkled skin of his chest. But I would not. Papa would be
outraged. I closed my eyes then so that if Papa asked if I had seen Jaja touch
the body of a heathen—it seemed more grievous, touching Papa-Nnukwu in
death—I could truthfully say no, because I had not seen everything that Jaja
did. My eyes remained closed for a long time, and it seemed that my ears, too,
were closed, because although I could hear the sound of voices, I did not
make out what they said. When I finally opened my eyes, Jaja sat on the floor,
next to Papa-Nnukwu’s sheathed frame. Obiora sat on the bed with Aunty
Ifeoma, who was speaking. “Wake Chima up, so we can tell him before the
people from the mortuary come.”
Jaja stood up to go and wake Chima. He wiped at the tears that slid downhis cheeks as he went.
“I will clean where the ozu lay, Mom,” Obiora said. He let out sporadic
choking sounds, crying deep in his throat. I knew that the reason he did not
cry out loud was because he was the nwoke in the house, the man Aunty
Ifeoma had by her side.
“No,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “I will do it.” She stood up then and hugged
Obiora, and they held on to each other for a long time. I went toward the
bathroom, the word ozu ringing in my ears. Papa-Nnukwu was an ozu now, a
corpse.
The bathroom door did not give when I tried to open it, and I pushed
harder to make sure it was really locked. Sometimes it got stuck because of
the way the wood expanded and contracted. Then I heard Amaka’s sobbing. It
was loud and throaty; she laughed the way she cried. She had not learned the
art of silent crying; she had not needed to. I wanted to turn and go away, to
leave her with her grief. But my underwear already felt wet, and I had to
move my weight from leg to leg to hold the urine back.
“Amaka, please, I have to use the toilet,” I whispered, and when she did
not respond, I repeated it loudly. I did not want to knock; knocking would
intrude rudely on her tears. Finally, Amaka unlocked the door and opened it. I
urinated as quickly as I could because I knew she stood just outside, waiting
to go back in and sob behind the locked door.
THE TWO MEN who came with Doctor Nduoma carried Papa-Nnukwu’s
stiffening body in their hands, one holding his underarms and the other his
ankles. They could not get the stretcher from the medical center because the
medical administrative staff was on strike, too. Doctor Nduoma said “Ndo” to
all of us, the smile still on his face. Obiora said he wanted to accompany the
ozu to the mortuary; he wanted to see them put the ozu in the fridge. But
Aunty Ifeoma said no, he did not have to see Papa-Nnukwu put in the fridge.
The word fridge floated around in my head. I knew where they put corpses in
the mortuary was different, yet I imagined Papa-Nnukwu’s body being folded
into a home refrigerator, the kind in our kitchen.
Obiora agreed not to go to the mortuary, but he followed the men and
watched closely as they loaded the ozu into the station wagon ambulance. He
peered into the back of the car to make sure that there was a mat to lay the
ozu on, that they would not just lay it down on the rusty floor.
After the ambulance drove off, followed by Doctor Nduoma in his car, Ihelped Aunty Ifeoma carry Papa-Nnukwu’s mattress to the verandah. She
scrubbed it thoroughly with Omo detergent and the same brush Amaka used
to clean the bathtub.
“Did you see your Papa-Nnukwu’s face in death, Kambili?” Aunty
Ifeoma asked, leaning the clean mattress against the metal railings to dry.
I shook my head. I had not looked at his face.
“He was smiling,” she said. “He was smiling.”
I looked away so Aunty Ifeoma would not see the tears on my face and
so I would not see the tears on hers. There was not much talking in the flat;
the silence was heavy and brooding. Even Chima curled up in a corner for
much of the morning, quietly drawing pictures. Aunty Ifeoma boiled some
yam slices, and we ate them dipped in palm oil that had chopped red peppers
floating in it. Amaka came out of the bathroom hours after we had eaten, her
eyes swollen, her voice hoarse.
“Go and eat, Amaka. I boiled yam,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“I did not finish painting him. He said we would finish it today.”
“Go and eat, inugo,” Aunty Ifeoma repeated.
“He would be alive now if the medical center was not on strike,” Amaka
said.
“It was his time,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Do you hear me? It was simply
his time.”
Amaka stared at Aunty Ifeoma and then turned away. I wanted to hug
her, to say “ebezi na” and wipe away her tears. I wanted to cry loudly, in front
of her, with her. But I knew it might anger her. She was already angry enough.
Besides, I did not have a right to mourn Papa-Nnukwu with her; he had been
her Papa-Nnukwu more than mine. She had oiled his hair while I kept away
and wondered what Papa would say if he knew. Jaja put his arm around her
and led her into the kitchen. She shook free of him, as if to prove she did not
need support, but she walked close to him. I stared after them, wishing I had
done that instead of Jaja.
“Somebody just parked in front of our flat,” Obiora said. He had taken
off his glasses to cry, but now he had them back on, and he pushed them up
the bridge of his nose as he got up to look outside.
“Who is it?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, tiredly. She could not care less who it
was.“Uncle Eugene.”
I froze on my seat, felt the skin of my arms melding and becoming one
with the cane arms of the chair. Papa-Nnukwu’s death had overshadowed
everything, pushed Papa’s face into a vague place. But that face had come
alive now. It was at the door, looking down at Obiora. Those bushy eyebrows
were not familiar; neither was that shade of brown skin. Perhaps if Obiora had
not said, “Uncle Eugene,” I would not have known that it was Papa, that the
tall stranger in the well-tailored white tunic was Papa.
“Good afternoon, Papa,” I said, mechanically.
“Kambili, how are you? Where is Jaja?”
Jaja came out of the kitchen then and stood staring at Papa. “Good
afternoon, Papa,” he finally said.
“Eugene, I asked you not to come,” Aunty Ifeoma said, in the same tired
tone of one who did not really care. “I told you I would bring them back
tomorrow,”
“I could not let them stay an extra day,” Papa said, looking around the
living room, toward the kitchen and then the hallway, as if waiting for Papa-
Nnukwu to appear in a puff of heathen smoke.
Obiora took Chima by the hand and went out to the verandah.
“Eugene, our father has fallen asleep,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
Papa stared at her for a while, surprise widening the narrow eyes that so
easily became red-spotted. “When?”
“This morning. In his sleep. They took him to the mortuary just hours
ago.”
Papa sat down and slowly lowered his head into his hands, and I
wondered if he was crying, if it would be acceptable for me to cry, too. But
when he looked up, I did not see the traces of tears in his eyes. “Did you call a
priest to give him extreme unction?” he asked.
Aunty Ifeoma ignored him and continued to look at her hands, folded in
her lap.
“Ifeoma, did you call a priest?” Papa asked.
“Is that all you can say, eh, Eugene? Have you nothing else to say, gbo?
Our father has died! Has your head turned upside down? Will you not help me
bury our father?”“I cannot participate in a pagan funeral, but we can discuss with the
parish priest and arrange a Catholic funeral.”
Aunty Ifeoma got up and started to shout. Her voice was unsteady. “I
will put my dead husband’s grave up for sale, Eugene, before I give our father
a Catholic funeral. Do you hear me? I said I will sell Ifediora’s grave first!
Was our father a Catholic? I ask you, Eugene, was he a Catholic? Uchu gba
gi!” Aunty Ifeoma snapped her fingers at Papa; she was throwing a curse at
him. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She made choking sounds as she turned
and walked into her bedroom.
“Kambili and Jaja, come,” Papa said, standing up. He hugged us at the
same time, tightly. He kissed the tops of our heads, before saying, “Go and
pack your bags.”
In the bedroom, most of my clothes were in the bag already. I stood
staring at the window with the missing louvers and the torn mosquito netting,
wondering what it would be like if I tore through the small hole and leaped
out.
“Nne.” Aunty Ifeoma came in silently and ran a hand over my cornrows.
She handed me my schedule, still folded in crisp quarters.
“Tell Father Amadi that I have left, that we have left, say good-bye for
us,” I said, turning. She had wiped the tears from her face, and she looked the
same again, fearless.
“I will,” she said.
She held my hand in hers as we walked to the front door. Outside, the
harmatten wind tore across the front yard, ruffling the plants in the circular
garden, bending the will and branches of trees, coating the parked cars with
more dust. Obiora carried our bags to the Mercedes, where Kevin waited with
the boot open. Chima started to cry; I knew he did not want Jaja to leave.
“Chima, o zugo. You will see Jaja again soon. They will come again,”
Aunty Ifeoma said, holding him close. Papa did not say yes to back up what
Aunty Ifeoma had said. Instead, to make Chima feel better he said, “O zugo,
it’s enough,” hugged Chima, and stuffed a small wad of naira notes into
Aunty Ifeoma’s hand to buy Chima a present, which made Chima smile.
Amaka blinked rapidly as she said good-bye, and I was not sure if it was from
the gritty wind or to keep more tears back. The dust coating her eyelashes
looked stylish, like cocoa-colored mascara. She pressed something wrapped
in black cellophane into my hands, then turned and hurried back into the flat.
I could see through the wrapping: it was the unfinished painting of PapaNnukwu. I hid it in my bag, quickly, and climbed into the car.
MAMA WAS AT THE DOOR when we drove into our compound. Her face was
swollen and the area around her right eye was the black-purple shade of an
overripe avocado. She was smiling. “Umu m, welcome. Welcome.” She
hugged us at the same time, burying her head in Jaja’s neck and then in mine.
“It seems so long, so much longer than ten days.”
“Ifeoma was busy tending to a heathen,” Papa said, pouring a glass of
water from a bottle Sisi placed on the table. “She did not even take them to
Aokpe on pilgrimage.” “Papa-Nnukwu is dead,” Jaja said. Mama’s hand flew
to her chest. “Chi m! When?” “This morning,” Jaja said. “He died in his
sleep.” Mama wrapped her hands around herself. “Ewuu, so he has gone to
rest, ewuu.”
“He has gone to face judgment,” Papa said, putting his glass of water
down. “Ifeoma did not have the sense to call a priest before he died. He might
have converted before he died.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to convert,” Jaja said.
“May he rest in peace,” Mama said quickly.
Papa looked at Jaja. “What did you say? Is that what you have learned
from living in the same house as a heathen?”
“No,” Jaja said.
Papa stared at Jaja, then at me, shaking his head slowly as if we had
somehow changed color. “Go and bathe and come down for dinner,” he said.
As we went upstairs, Jaja walked in front of me and I tried to place my
feet on the exact spots where he placed his. Papa’s prayer before dinner was
longer than usual: he asked God to cleanse his children, to remove whatever
spirit it was that made them lie to him about being in the same house as a
heathen. “It is the sin of omission, Lord,” he said, as though God did not
know. I said my “amen” loudly. Dinner was beans and rice with chunks of
chicken. As I ate, I thought how each chunk of chicken on my plate would be
cut into three pieces in Aunty Ifeoma’s house.
“Papa, may I have the key to my room, please?” Jaja asked, setting his
fork down. We were halfway through dinner. I took a deep breath and held it.
Papa had always kept the keys to our rooms.
“What?” Papa asked.

『••✎••』