This assignment requires you to write a literary analysis in essay form, focusing on the primary text Purple Hibiscus but integrating some research.  To enrich but not make your central argument, you must integrate some thoughtful discussion of one scholarly secondary source. 

Draw on this source to support or debate a point or two in the main body of your paper and ensure yourreading of the novel is prominently featured. 

All instructions are attached in the document file. 

English 103, Spring 2021

Paper 2

Due April 14th by midnight Pacific Time.

1,000 words, approximately, including short quotes but excluding bibliography.

Formatted and referenced in MLA style. All borrowed material must be cited to avoid plagiarism.

This assignment requires you to write a literary analysis in essay form, focusing on the primary text
Purple Hibiscus
but integrating some research. To enrich but not make your central argument, you must integrate some thoughtful discussion of one scholarly secondary source.

Draw on this source to support or debate a point or two in the main body of your paper and ensure your reading of the novel is prominently featured.

Scholarly sources are referenced books published by university presses and articles in peer reviewed journals. For this paper they may include literary criticism related to either feminist theory or post-colonial theory, criticism of the literary work of Adichie, analysis of the political context of Nigeria during the early 1990s, articles on domestic violence in a psychology or sociology journal, articles on practising Catholicism today’s society in sociology or theology journals. Search our library’s electronic collection for material. Relevant databases accessible via the library’s home page including JSTOR, Gale Literature, Project MUSE, Academic Search Complete.

For help referencing and citing sources see The Cap Guide to Writing Assignments, the CapU library web page “MLA Citation Guide”:

https://libguides.capilanou.ca/mla

Also, the Writing Centre web page “Popular Handouts” and the pdfs MLA Style, The Literary Essay:

https://www.capilanou.ca/student-life/academic-support/learning-commons/writing-centre/popular-writing-handouts/

Choose one of the options below. Your paper should be structure in essay form with a thesis statement prominently positioned in the introduction, several unified main paragraphs introduced by topic sentences and supported by short quotations, and a conclusion.

1. Analyze Kambili’s character development from a feminist perspective.

2. Compare and contrast the life choices Eugene and Ifeoma display from a post-colonial perspective.

3.

Discuss how the attacks on democracy underway in the political setting of Purple Hibiscus impact your reading of the main plot.

4. Compare and contrast Eugene’s and Father Amadi’s approach to practising Catholicism.

Purple Hibiscus
a novel by
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

For
Professor James Nwoye Adichie
and
Mrs. Grace Ifeoma Adichie,
my parents, my heroes, ndi o ga-adili mma.

Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication

Breaking Gods
Speaking With Our Spirits
The Pieces of Gods
A Different Silence

Acknowledgments
P.S.
About the Author
About the book
Read on
Also by the Author
Praise
Preview

Copyright
About the Publisher

BREAKING GODS
Palm Sunday

Things started to fall apart at home when my brother, Jaja, did
not go to communion and Papa flung his heavy missal across the room and
broke the figurines on the étagère. We had just returned from church. Mama
placed the fresh palm fronds, which were wet with holy water, on the dining
table and then went upstairs to change. Later, she would knot the palm
fronds into sagging cross shapes and hang them on the wall beside our gold-
framed family photo. They would stay there until next Ash Wednesday,
when we would take the fronds to church, to have them burned for ash.
Papa, wearing a long, gray robe like the rest of the oblates, helped distribute
ash every year. His line moved the slowest because he pressed hard on each
forehead to make a perfect cross with his ash-covered thumb and slowly,
meaningfully enunciated every word of “dust and unto dust you shall
return.”
Papa always sat in the front pew for Mass, at the end beside the middle
aisle, with Mama, Jaja, and me sitting next to him. He was first to receive
communion. Most people did not kneel to receive communion at the marble
altar, with the blond lifesize Virgin Mary mounted nearby, but Papa did. He
would hold his eyes shut so hard that his face tightened into a grimace, and
then he would stick his tongue out as far as it could go. Afterward, he sat
back on his seat and watched the rest of the congregation troop to the altar,
palms pressed together and extended, like a saucer held sideways, just as
Father Benedict had taught them to do. Even though Father Benedict had
been at St. Agnes for seven years, people still referred to him as “our new
priest.” Perhaps they would not have if he had not been white. He still
looked new. The colors of his face, the colors of condensed milk and a cut-
open soursop, had not tanned at all in the fierce heat of seven Nigerian
harmattans. And his British nose was still as pinched and as narrow as it
always was, the same nose that had had me worried that he did not get
enough air when he first came to Enugu. Father Benedict had changed
things in the parish, such as insisting that the Credo and kyrie be recited
only in Latin; Igbo was not acceptable. Also, hand clapping was to be kept
at a minimum, lest the solemnity of Mass be compromised. But he allowed
offertory songs in Igbo; he called them native songs, and when he said
“native” his straight-line lips turned down at the corners to form an inverted
U. During his sermons, Father Benedict usually referred to the pope, Papa,

and Jesus—in that order. He used Papa to illustrate the gospels. “When we
let our light shine before men, we are reflecting Christ’s Triumphant Entry,”
he said that Palm Sunday. “Look at Brother Eugene. He could have chosen
to be like other Big Men in this country, he could have decided to sit at
home and do nothing after the coup, to make sure the government did not
threaten his businesses. But no, he used the Standard to speak the truth even
though it meant the paper lost advertising. Brother Eugene spoke out for
freedom. How many of us have stood up for the truth? How many of us
have reflected the Triumphant Entry?”
The congregation said “Yes” or “God bless him” or “Amen,” but not
too loudly so they would not sound like the mushroom Pentecostal
churches; then they listened intently, quietly. Even the babies stopped
crying, as if they, too, were listening. On some Sundays, the congregation
listened closely even when Father Benedict talked about things everybody
already knew, about Papa making the biggest donations to Peter’s pence and
St. Vincent de Paul. Or about Papa paying for the cartons of communion
wine, for the new ovens at the convent where the Reverend Sisters baked
the host, for the new wing to St. Agnes Hospital where Father Benedict
gave extreme unction. And I would sit with my knees pressed together, next
to Jaja, trying hard to keep my face blank, to keep the pride from showing,
because Papa said modesty was very important.
Papa himself would have a blank face when I looked at him, the kind
of expression he had in the photo when they did the big story on him after
Amnesty World gave him a human rights award. It was the only time he
allowed himself to be featured in the paper. His editor, Ade Coker, had
insisted on it, saying Papa deserved it, saying Papa was too modest. Mama
told me and Jaja; Papa did not tell us such things. That blank look would
remain on his face until Father Benedict ended the sermon, until it was time
for communion. After Papa took communion, he sat back and watched the
congregation walk to the altar and, after Mass, reported to Father Benedict,
with concern, when a person missed communion on two successive
Sundays. He always encouraged Father Benedict to call and win that person
back into the fold; nothing but mortal sin would keep a person away from
communion two Sundays in a row.
So when Papa did not see Jaja go to the altar that Palm Sunday when
everything changed, he banged his leatherbound missal, with the red and

green ribbons peeking out, down on the dining table when we got home.
The table was glass, heavy glass. It shook, as did the palm fronds on it.
“Jaja, you did not go to communion,” Papa said quietly, almost a
question.
Jaja stared at the missal on the table as though he were addressing it.
“The wafer gives me bad breath.”
I stared at Jaja. Had something come loose in his head? Papa insisted
we call it the host because “host” came close to capturing the essence, the
sacredness, of Christ’s body. “Wafer” was too secular, wafer was what one
of Papa’s factories made—chocolate wafer, banana wafer, what people
bought their children to give them a treat better than biscuits.
“And the priest keeps touching my mouth and it nauseates me,” Jaja
said. He knew I was looking at him, that my shocked eyes begged him to
seal his mouth, but he did not look at me.
“It is the body of our Lord.” Papa’s voice was low, very low. His face
looked swollen already, with pus-tipped rashes spread across every inch,
but it seemed to be swelling even more. “You cannot stop receiving the
body of our Lord. It is death, you know that.”
“Then I will die.” Fear had darkened Jaja’s eyes to the color of coal tar,
but he looked Papa in the face now. “Then I will die, Papa.”
Papa looked around the room quickly, as if searching for proof that
something had fallen from the high ceiling, something he had never thought
would fall. He picked up the missal and flung it across the room, toward
Jaja. It missed Jaja completely, but it hit the glass étagerè, which Mama
polished often. It cracked the top shelf, swept the beige, finger-size ceramic
figurines of ballet dancers in various contorted postures to the hard floor
and then landed after them. Or rather it landed on their many pieces. It lay
there, a huge leather-bound missal that contained the readings for all three
cycles of the church year.
Jaja did not move. Papa swayed from side to side. I stood at the door,
watching them. The ceiling fan spun round and round, and the light bulbs
attached to it clinked against one another. Then Mama came in, her rubber
slippers making slap-slap sounds on the marble floor. She had changed
from her sequined Sunday wrapper and the blouse with puffy sleeves. Now
she had a plain tie-dye wrapper tied loosely around her waist and that white
T-shirt she wore every other day. It was a souvenir from a spiritual retreat

she and Papa had attended; the words GOD IS LOVE crawled over her sagging
breasts. She stared at the figurine pieces on the floor and then knelt and
started to pick them up with her bare hands.
The silence was broken only by the whir of the ceiling fan as it sliced
through the still air. Although our spacious dining room gave way to an
even wider living room, I felt suffocated. The off-white walls with the
framed photos of Grandfather were narrowing, bearing down on me. Even
the glass dining table was moving toward me.
“Nne, ngwa. Go and change,” Mama said to me, startling me although
her Igbo words were low and calming. In the same breath, without pausing,
she said to Papa, “Your tea is getting cold,” and to Jaja, “Come and help
me, biko.”
Papa sat down at the table and poured his tea from the china tea set
with pink flowers on the edges. I waited for him to ask Jaja and me to take a
sip, as he always did. A love sip, he called it, because you shared the little
things you loved with the people you loved. Have a love sip, he would say,
and Jaja would go first. Then I would hold the cup with both hands and
raise it to my lips. One sip. The tea was always too hot, always burned my
tongue, and if lunch was something peppery, my raw tongue suffered. But it
didn’t matter, because I knew that when the tea burned my tongue, it burned
Papa’s love into me. But Papa didn’t say, “Have a love sip”; he didn’t say
anything as I watched him raise the cup to his lips.
Jaja knelt beside Mama, flattened the church bulletin he held into a
dustpan, and placed a jagged ceramic piece on it. “Careful, Mama, or those
pieces will cut your fingers,” he said.
I pulled at one of the cornrows underneath my black church scarf to
make sure I was not dreaming. Why were they acting so normal, Jaja and
Mama, as if they did not know what had just happened? And why was Papa
drinking his tea quietly, as if Jaja had not just talked back to him? Slowly, I
turned and headed upstairs to change out of my red Sunday dress.
I sat at my bedroom window after I changed; the cashew tree was so
close I could reach out and pluck a leaf if it were not for the silver-colored
crisscross of mosquito netting. The bell-shaped yellow fruits hung lazily,
drawing buzzing bees that bumped against my window’s netting. I heard
Papa walk upstairs to his room for his afternoon siesta. I closed my eyes, sat

still, waiting to hear him call Jaja, to hear Jaja go into his room. But after
long, silent minutes, I opened my eyes and pressed my forehead against the
window louvers to look outside. Our yard was wide enough to hold a
hundred people dancing atilogu, spacious enough for each dancer to do the
usual somersaults and land on the next dancer’s shoulders. The compound
walls, topped by coiled electric wires, were so high I could not see the cars
driving by on our street. It was early rainy season, and the frangipani trees
planted next to the walls already filled the yard with the sickly-sweet scent
of their flowers. A row of purple bougainvillea, cut smooth and straight as a
buffet table, separated the gnarled trees from the driveway. Closer to the
house, vibrant bushes of hibiscus reached out and touched one another as if
they were exchanging their petals. The purple plants had started to push out
sleepy buds, but most of the flowers were still on the red ones. They
seemed to bloom so fast, those red hibiscuses, considering how often Mama
cut them to decorate the church altar and how often visitors plucked them as
they walked past to their parked cars.
It was mostly Mama’s prayer group members who plucked flowers; a
woman tucked one behind her ear once—I saw her clearly from my
window. But even the government agents, two men in black jackets who
came some time ago, yanked at the hibiscus as they left. They came in a
pickup truck with Federal Government plates and parked close to the
hibiscus bushes. They didn’t stay long. Later, Jaja said they came to bribe
Papa, that he had heard them say that their pickup was full of dollars. I was
not sure Jaja had heard correctly. But even now I thought about it
sometimes. I imagined the truck full of stacks and stacks of foreign money,
wondered if they had put the money in many cartons or in one huge carton,
the size our fridge came in.
I was still at the window when Mama came into my room. Every
Sunday before lunch, in between telling Sisi to put a little more palm oil in
the soup, a little less curry in the coconut rice, and while Papa took his
siesta, Mama plaited my hair. She would sit on an armchair near the kitchen
door and I on the floor with my head cradled between her thighs. Although
the kitchen was airy, with the windows always open, my hair would still
manage to absorb the spices, and afterward, when I brought the end of a
braid to my nose, I would smell egusi soup, utazi, curry. But Mama did not

come into my room with the bag that held combs and hair oils and ask me
to come downstairs. Instead, she said, “Lunch is ready, nne.”
I meant to say I am sorry Papa broke your figurines, but the words that
came out were, “I’m sorry your figurines broke, Mama.”
She nodded quickly, then shook her head to show that the figurines did
not matter. They did, though. Years ago, before I understood, I used to
wonder why she polished them each time I heard the sounds from their
room, like something being banged against the door. Her rubber slippers
never made a sound on the stairs, but I knew she went downstairs when I
heard the dining room door open. I would go down to see her standing by
the étagère with a kitchen towel soaked in soapy water. She spent at least a
quarter of an hour on each ballet-dancing figurine. There were never tears
on her face. The last time, only two weeks ago, when her swollen eye was
still the black-purple color of an overripe avocado, she had rearranged them
after she polished them.
“I will plait your hair after lunch,” she said, turning to leave.
“Yes, Mama.”
I followed her downstairs. She limped slightly, as though one leg were
shorter than the other, a gait that made her seem even smaller than she was.
The stairs curved elegantly in an S shape, and I was halfway down when I
saw Jaja standing in the hallway. Usually he went to his room to read before
lunch, but he had not come upstairs today; he had been in the kitchen the
whole time, with Mama and Sisi.
“Ke kwanu?” I asked, although I did not need to ask how he was
doing. I had only to look at him. His seventeen-year-old face had grown
lines; they zigzagged across his forehead, and inside each line a dark
tension had crawled in. I reached out and clasped his hand shortly before
we went into the dining room. Papa and Mama were already seated, and
Papa was washing his hands in the bowl of water Sisi held before him. He
waited until Jaja and I sat down opposite him, and started the grace. For
twenty minutes he asked God to bless the food. Afterward, he intoned the
Blessed Virgin in several different titles while we responded, “Pray for us.”
His favorite title was Our Lady, Shield of the Nigerian People. He had made
it up himself. If only people would use it every day, he told us, Nigeria
would not totter like a Big Man with the spindly legs of a child.

Lunch was fufu and onugbu soup. The fufu was smooth and fluffy. Sisi
made it well; she pounded the yam energetically, adding drops of water into
the mortar, her cheeks contracting with the thump-thump-thump of the
pestle. The soup was thick with chunks of boiled beef and dried fish and
dark green onugbu leaves. We ate silently. I molded my fufu into small balls
with my fingers, dipped it in the soup, making sure to scoop up fish chunks,
and then brought it to my mouth. I was certain the soup was good, but I did
not taste it, could not taste it. My tongue felt like paper.
“Pass the salt, please,” Papa said.
We all reached for the salt at the same time. Jaja and I touched the
crystal shaker, my finger brushed his gently, then he let go. I passed it to
Papa. The silence stretched out even longer.
“They brought the cashew juice this afternoon. It tastes good. I am
sure it will sell,” Mama finally said.
“Ask that girl to bring it,” Papa said. Mama pressed the ringer that
dangled above the table on a transparent wire from the ceiling, and Sisi
appeared.
“Yes, Madam?”
“Bring two bottles of the drink they brought from the factory.”
“Yes, Madam.”
I wished Sisi had said “What bottles, Madam?” or “Where are they,
Madam?” Just something to keep her and Mama talking, to veil the nervous
movements of Jaja molding his fufu. Sisi was back shortly and placed the
bottles next to Papa. They had the same faded-looking labels as every other
thing Papa’s factories made—the wafers and cream biscuits and bottled
juice and banana chips. Papa poured the yellow juice for everyone. I
reached out quickly for my glass and took a sip. It tasted watery. I wanted to
seem eager; maybe if I talked about how good it tasted, Papa might forget
that he had not yet punished Jaja.
“It’s very good, Papa,” I said.
Papa swirled it around his bulging cheeks. “Yes, yes.”
“It tastes like fresh cashew,” Mama said.
Say something, please, I wanted to say to Jaja. He was supposed to say
something now, to contribute, to compliment Papa’s new product. We
always did, each time an employee from one of his factories brought a
product sample for us.

“Just like white wine,” Mama added. She was nervous, I could tell—
not just because a fresh cashew tasted nothing like white wine but also
because her voice was lower than usual. “White wine,” Mama said again,
closing her eyes to better savor the taste. “Fruity white wine.”
“Yes,” I said. A ball of fufu slipped from my fingers and into the soup.
Papa was staring pointedly at Jaja. “Jaja, have you not shared a drink
with us, gbo? Have you no words in your mouth?” he asked, entirely in
Igbo. A bad sign. He hardly spoke Igbo, and although Jaja and I spoke it
with Mama at home, he did not like us to speak it in public. We had to
sound civilized in public, he told us; we had to speak English. Papa’s sister,
Aunty Ifeoma, said once that Papa was too much of a colonial product. She
had said this about Papa in a mild, forgiving way, as if it were not Papa’s
fault, as one would talk about a person who was shouting gibberish from a
severe case of malaria.
“Have you nothing to say, gbo, Jaja?” Papa asked again.
“Mba, there are no words in my mouth,” Jaja replied.
“What?” There was a shadow clouding Papa’s eyes, a shadow that had
been in Jaja’s eyes. Fear. It had left Jaja’s eyes and entered Papa’s.
“I have nothing to say,” Jaja said.
“The juice is good—” Mama started to say.
Jaja pushed his chair back. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Papa. Thank
you, Mama.”
I turned to stare at him. At least he was saying thanks the right way,
the way we always did after a meal. But he was also doing what we never
did: he was leaving the table before Papa had said the prayer after meals.
“Jaja!” Papa said. The shadow grew, enveloping the whites of Papa’s
eyes. Jaja was walking out of the dining room with his plate. Papa made to
get up and then slumped back on his seat. His cheeks drooped, bulldoglike.
I reached for my glass and stared at the juice, watery yellow, like urine.
I poured all of it down my throat, in one gulp. I didn’t know what else to do.
This had never happened before in my entire life, never. The compound
walls would crumble, I was sure, and squash the frangipani trees. The sky
would cave in. The Persian rugs on the stretches of gleaming marble floor
would shrink. Something would happen. But the only thing that happened
was my choking. My body shook from the coughing. Papa and Mama
rushed over. Papa thumped my back while Mama rubbed my shoulders and

said, “O zugo. Stop coughing.”

THAT EVENING, I STAYED in bed and did not have dinner with the family.
I developed a cough, and my cheeks burned the back of my hand. Inside my
head, thousands of monsters played a painful game of catch, but instead of a
ball, it was a brown leather-bound missal that they threw to each other. Papa
came into my room; my mattress sank in when he sat and smoothed my
cheeks and asked if I wanted anything else. Mama was already making me
ofe nsala. I said no, and we sat silently, our hands clasped for a long time.
Papa’s breathing was always noisy, but now he panted as if he were out of
breath, and I wondered what he was thinking, if perhaps he was running in
his mind, running away from something. I did not look at his face because I
did not want to see the rashes that spread across every inch of it, so many,
so evenly spread that they made his skin look bloated.
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.

SPEAKING WITH OUR SPIRITS
Before Palm Sunday

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 up
the 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 like that 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. I watched 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 family time 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.
He opened the dining room door. Then we heard the front door open, heard
him say something to the gate man, Adamu.
“There’s blood on the floor,” Jaja said. “I’ll get the brush from the
bathroom.”
We cleaned up the trickle of blood, which trailed away as if someone
had carried a leaking jar of red watercolor all the way downstairs. Jaja
scrubbed while I wiped.

MAMA DID NOT COME home that night, and Jaja and I had dinner alone.
We did not talk about Mama. Instead, we talked about the three men who
were publicly executed two days before, for drug trafficking. Jaja had heard
some boys talking about it in school. It had been on television. The men
were tied to poles, and their bodies kept shuddering even after the bullets
were no longer being pumped into them. I told Jaja what a girl in my class
had said: that her mother turned their TV off, asking why she should watch
fellow human beings die, asking what was wrong with all those people who
had gathered at the execution ground.
After dinner, Jaja said grace, and at the end he added a short prayer for
Mama. Papa came home when we were in our rooms studying, according to
our schedules. I was drawing pregnant stick images on the inner flap of my
Introductory Agriculture for Junior Secondary Schools when he came into
my room. His eyes were swollen and red, and somehow that made him look
younger, more vulnerable.
“Your mother will be back tomorrow, about the time you get back from
school. She will be fine,” he said.
“Yes, Papa.” I looked away from his face, back at my books.
He held my shoulders, rubbing them in gentle circular motions.
“Stand up,” he said. I stood up and he hugged me, pressed me close so
that I felt the beat of his heart under his soft chest.

MAMA CAME HOME the next afternoon. Kevin brought her in the Peugeot
505 with the factory name emblazoned on the passenger door, the one that
often took us to and from school. Jaja and I stood waiting by the front door,
close enough for our shoulders to touch, and we opened the door before she
got to it.
“Umu m,” she said, hugging us. “My children.” She wore the same
white T-shirt with GOD IS LOVE written on the front. Her green wrapper hung
lower than usual on her waist; it had been knotted with a lazy effort at the
side. Her eyes were vacant, like the eyes of those mad people who
wandered around the roadside garbage dumps in town, pulling grimy, torn
canvas bags with their life fragments inside.
“There was an accident, the baby is gone,” she said.
I moved back a little, stared at her belly. It still looked big, still pushed
at her wrapper in a gentle arc. Was Mama sure the baby was gone? I was
still staring at her belly when Sisi came in. Sisi’s cheekbones were so high
they gave her an angular, eerily amused expression, as if she were mocking
you, laughing at you, and you would never know why. “Good afternoon,
Madam, nno,” she said. “Will you eat now or after you bathe?” “Eh?” For a
moment Mama looked as though she did not know what Sisi had said. “Not
now, Sisi, not now. Get me water and a towel.”
Mama stood hugging herself in the center of the living room, near the
glass table, until Sisi brought a plastic bowl of water and a kitchen towel.
The étagère had three shelves of delicate glass, and each one held beige
ballet-dancing figurines. Mama started at the lowest layer, polishing both
the shelf and the figurines. I sat down on the leather sofa closest to her,
close enough to reach out and straighten her wrapper.
“Nne, this is your study time. Go upstairs,” she said.
“I want to stay here.”
She slowly ran the cloth over a figurine, one of its matchstick-size legs
raised high in the air, before she spoke. “Nne, go.”
I went upstairs then and sat staring at my textbook. The black type
blurred, the letters swimming into one another, and then changed to a bright
red, the red of fresh blood. The blood was watery, flowing from Mama,
flowing from my eyes.

Later, at dinner, Papa said we would recite sixteen different novenas.
For Mama’s forgiveness. And on Sunday, the first Sunday of Trinity, we
stayed back after Mass and started the novenas. Father Benedict sprinkled
us with holy water. Some of the holy water landed on my lips, and I tasted
the stale saltiness of it as we prayed. If Papa felt Jaja or me beginning to
drift off at the thirteenth recitation of the Plea to St. Jude, he suggested we
start all over. We had to get it right. I did not think, I did not even think to
think, what Mama needed to be forgiven for.

The words in my textbooks kept turning into blood each time I
read them. Even as my first-term exams approached, even when we started
to do class reviews, the words still made no sense.
A few days before my first exam, I was in my room studying, trying to
focus on one word at a time, when the doorbell rang. It was Yewande
Coker, the wife of Papa’s editor. She was crying. I could hear her because
my room was directly above the living room and because I had never heard
crying that loud before.
“They have taken him! They have taken him!” she said, between
throaty sobs.
“Yewande, Yewande,” Papa said, his voice much lower than hers.
“What will I do, sir? I have three children! One is still sucking my
breast! How will I raise them alone?” I could hardly hear her words;
instead, what I heard clearly was the sound of something catching in her
throat. Then Papa said, “Yewande, don’t talk that way. Ade will be fine, I
promise you. Ade will be fine.”
I heard Jaja leave his room. He would walk downstairs and pretend
that he was going to the kitchen to drink water and stand close to the living
room door for a while, listening. When he came back up, he told me
soldiers had arrested Ade Coker as he drove out of the editorial offices of
the Standard. His car was abandoned on the roadside, the front door left
open. I imagined Ade Coker being pulled out of his car, being squashed into
another car, perhaps a black station wagon filled with soldiers, their guns
hanging out of the windows. I imagined his hands quivering with fear, a wet
patch spreading on his trousers.
I knew his arrest was because of the big cover story in the last
Standard, a story about how the Head of State and his wife had paid people
to transport heroin abroad, a story that questioned the recent execution of
three men and who the real drug barons were.
Jaja said that when he looked through the keyhole, Papa was holding
Yewande’s hand and praying, telling her to repeat “none of those who trust
in Him shall be left desolate.”
Those were the words I said to myself as I took my exams the
following week. And I repeated them, too, as Kevin drove me home on the
last day of school, my report card tightly pressed to my chest. The Reverend

Sisters gave us our cards unsealed. I came second in my class. It was
written in figures: “2/25.” My form mistress, Sister Clara, had written,
“Kambili is intelligent beyond her years, quiet and responsible.” The
principal, Mother Lucy, wrote, “A brilliant, obedient student and a daughter
to be proud of.” But I knew Papa would not be proud. He had often told
Jaja and me that he did not spend so much money on Daughters of the
Immaculate Heart and St. Nicholas to have us let other children come first.
Nobody had spent money on his own schooling, especially not his Godless
father, our Papa-Nnukwu, yet he had always come first. I wanted to make
Papa proud, to do as well as he had done. I needed him to touch the back of
my neck and tell me that I was fulfilling God’s purpose. I needed him to
hug me close and say that to whom much is given, much is also expected. I
needed him to smile at me, in that way that lit up his face, that warmed
something inside me. But I had come second. I was stained by failure.
Mama opened the door even before Kevin stopped the car in the
driveway. She always waited by the front door on the last day of school, to
sing praise songs in Igbo and hug Jaja and me and caress our report cards in
her hands. It was the only time she sang aloud at home.
“O me mma, Chineke, o me mma…” Mama started her song and then
stopped when I greeted her.
“Good afternoon, Mama.”
“Nne, did it go well? Your face is not bright.” She stood aside to let me
pass.
“I came second.”
Mama paused. “Come and eat. Sisi cooked coconut rice.”
I was sitting at my study desk when Papa came home. He lumbered
upstairs, each heavy step creating turbulence in my head, and went into
Jaja’s room. He had come first, as usual, so Papa would be proud, would
hug Jaja, leave his arm resting around Jaja’s shoulders. He took a while in
Jaja’s room, though; I knew he was looking through each individual subject
score, checking to see if any had decreased by one or two marks since last
term. Something pushed fluids into my bladder, and I rushed to the toilet.
Papa was in my room when I came out.
“Good evening, Papa, nno.”
“Did school go well?”

I wanted to say I came second so that he would know immediately, so
that I would acknowledge my failure, but instead I said, “Yes,” and handed
him the report card. He seemed to take forever to open it and even longer to
read it. I tried to pace my breathing as I waited, knowing all the while that I
could not.
“Who came first?” Papa asked, finally.
“Chinwe Jideze.”
“Jideze? The girl who came second last term?”
“Yes,” I said. My stomach was making sounds, hollow rumbling
sounds that seemed too loud, that would not stop even when I sucked in my
belly.
Papa looked at my report card for a while longer; then he said, “Come
down for dinner.”
I walked downstairs, my legs feeling joint-free, like long strips of
wood. Papa had come home with samples of a new biscuit, and he passed
the green packet around before we started dinner. I bit into the biscuit.
“Very good, Papa.”
Papa took a bite and chewed, then looked at Jaja.
“It has a fresh taste,” Jaja said.
“Very tasty,” Mama said.
“It should sell by God’s grace,” Papa said. “Our wafers lead the market
now and this should join them.”
I did not, could not, look at Papa’s face when he spoke. The boiled
yam and peppery greens refused to go down my throat; they clung to my
mouth like children clinging to their mothers’ hand at a nursery school
entrance. I downed glass after glass of water to push them down, and by the
time Papa started the grace, my stomach was swollen with water. When he
was done, Papa said, “Kambili, come upstairs.”
I followed him. As he climbed the stairs in his red silk pajamas, his
buttocks quivered and shook like akamu, properly made akamu, jellylike.
The cream decor in Papa’s bedroom was changed every year but always to a
slightly different shade of cream. The plush rug that sank in when you
stepped on it was plain cream; the curtains had only a little brown
embroidery at the edges; the cream leather armchairs were placed close
together as if two people were sitting in an intimate conversation. All that
cream blended and made the room seem wider, as if it never ended, as if

you could not run even if you wanted to, because there was nowhere to run
to. When I had thought of heaven as a child, I visualized Papa’s room, the
softness, the creaminess, the endlessness. I would snuggle into Papa’s arms
when harmattan thunderstorms raged outside, flinging mangoes against the
window netting and making the electric wires hit each other and spark
bright orange flames. Papa would lodge me between his knees or wrap me
in the cream blanket that smelled of safety.
I sat on a similar blanket now, on the edge of the bed. I slipped off my
slippers and sank my feet into the rug and decided to keep them sunk in so
that my toes would feel cushioned. So that a part of me would feel safe.
“Kambili,” Papa said, breathing deeply. “You didn’t put in your best
this term. You came second because you chose to.” His eyes were sad. Deep
and sad. I wanted to touch his face, to run my hand over his rubbery cheeks.
There were stories in his eyes that I would never know.
The phone rang then; it had been ringing more often since Ade Coker
was arrested. Papa answered it and spoke in low tones. I sat waiting for him
until he looked up and waved me away. He did not call me the next day, or
the day after, to talk about my report card, to decide how I would be
punished. I wondered if he was too preoccupied with Ade Coker’s case, but
even after he got him out of jail a week later, he did not talk about my
report card. He did not talk about getting Ade Coker out of jail, either; we
simply saw his editorial back in the Standard, where he wrote about the
value of freedom, about how his pen would not, could not, stop writing the
truth. But he did not mention where he had been detained or who had
arrested him or what had been done to him. There was a postscript in italics
where he thanked his publisher: “a man of integrity, the bravest man I
know.” I was sitting next to Mama on the couch, during family time, and I
read that line over and over and then closed my eyes, felt a surge run
through me, the same feeling I got when Father Benedict talked about Papa
at Mass, the same feeling I got after I sneezed: a clear, tingling sensation.
“Thank God Ade is safe,” Mama said, running her hands over the
newspaper.
“They put out cigarettes on his back,” Papa said, shaking his head.
“They put out so many cigarettes on his back.”
“They will receive their due, but not on this earth, mba,” Mama said.
Although Papa did not smile at her—he looked too sad to smile—I wished I

had thought to say that, before Mama did. I knew Papa liked her having
said that.
“We are going to publish underground now,” Papa said. “It is no longer
safe for my staff.”
I knew that publishing underground meant that the newspaper would
be published from a secret location. Yet I imagined Ade Coker and the rest
of the staff in an office beneath the ground, a fluorescent lamp flooding the
dark damp room, the men bent over their desks, writing the truth.
That night, when Papa prayed, he added longer passages urging God to
bring about the downfall of the Godless men ruling our country, and he
intoned over and over, “Our Lady Shield of the Nigerian People, pray for
us.”

THE SCHOOL BREAK was short, only two weeks, and the Saturday before
school resumed, Mama took Jaja and me to the market to get new sandals
and bags. We didn’t need them; our bags and brown leather sandals were
still new, only a term old. But it was the only ritual that was ours alone,
going to the market before the start of each new term, rolling the car
window down as Kevin drove us there without having to ask permission
from Papa. In the outskirts of the market, we let our eyes dwell on the half-
naked mad people near the rubbish dumps, on the men who casually
stopped to unzip their trousers and urinate at corners, on the women who
seemed to be haggling loudly with mounds of green vegetables until the
head of the trader peeked out from behind.
Inside the market, we shrugged off traders who pulled us along the
dark passages, saying, “I have what you want,” or “Come with me, it’s
here,” even though they had no idea what we wanted. We scrunched up our
noses at the smells of bloody fresh meat and musty dried fish, and lowered
our heads from the bees that buzzed in thick clouds over the sheds of the
honey sellers.
As we left the markets with our sandals and some fabric Mama had
bought, we saw a small crowd gathered around the vegetable stalls we had
passed earlier, the ones lining the road. Soldiers were milling around.
Market women were shouting, and many had both hands placed on their
heads, in the way that people do to show despair or shock. A woman lay in

the dirt, wailing, tearing at her short afro. Her wrapper had come undone
and her white underwear showed.
“Hurry up,” Mama said, moving closer to Jaja and me, and I felt that
she wanted to shield us from seeing the soldiers and the women. As we
hurried past, I saw a woman spit at a soldier, I saw the soldier raise a whip
in the air. The whip was long. It curled in the air before it landed on the
woman’s shoulder. Another soldier was kicking down trays of fruits,
squashing papayas with his boots and laughing. When we got into the car,
Kevin told Mama that the soldiers had been ordered to demolish the
vegetable stalls because they were illegal structures. Mama said nothing;
she was looking out of the window, as though she wanted to catch the last
sight of those women.
I thought about the woman lying in the dirt as we drove home. I had
not seen her face, but I felt that I knew her, that I had always known her. I
wished I could have gone over and helped her up, cleaned the red mud from
her wrapper.
I thought about her, too, on Monday, as Papa drove me to school. He
slowed down on Ogui Road to fling some crisp naira notes at a beggar
sprawled by the roadside, near some children hawking peeled oranges. The
beggar stared at the note, then stood up and waved after us, clapping and
jumping. I had assumed he was lame. I watched him in the rearview mirror,
my eyes steadily on him, until he disappeared from sight. He reminded me
of the market woman in the dirt. There was a helplessness to his joy, the
same kind of helplessness as in that woman’s despair.
The walls that surrounded Daughters of the Immaculate Heart
Secondary School were very high, similar to our compound walls, but
instead of coiled electrified wires, they were topped by jagged pieces of
green glass with sharp edges jutting out. Papa said the walls had swayed his
decision when I finished elementary school. Discipline was important, he
said. You could not have youngsters scaling walls to go into town and go
wild, the way they did at the federal government colleges.
“These people cannot drive,” Papa muttered when we got to the school
gates, where cars nosed up to each other, horning. “There is no prize for
being first to get into the school compound.”
Hawkers, girls much younger than I, defied the school gate men,
edging closer and closer to the cars to offer peeled oranges and bananas and

groundnuts, their moth-eaten blouses slipping off their shoulders. Papa
finally eased the car into the wide school compound and parked near the
volleyball court, beyond the stretch of manicured lawn.
“Where is your class?” he asked.
I pointed to the building by the group of mango trees. Papa came out
of the car with me and I wondered what he was doing, why he was here,
why he had driven me to school and asked Kevin to take Jaja.
Sister Margaret saw him as we walked to my class. She waved gaily,
from the midst of students and a few parents, then quickly waddled over to
us. Her words flew generously out of her mouth: how was Papa doing, was
he happy with my progress at Daughters of the Immaculate Heart, would he
be at the reception for the bishop next week?
Papa changed his accent when he spoke, sounding British, just as he
did when he spoke to Father Benedict. He was gracious, in the eager-to-
please way that he always assumed with the religious, especially with the
white religious. As gracious as when he presented the check for
refurbishing the Daughters of the Immaculate Heart library. He said he had
just come to see my class, and Sister Margaret told him to let her know if he
needed anything.
“Where is Chinwe Jideze?” Papa asked, when we got to the front of
my class. A group of girls stood at the door, talking. I looked around,
feeling a weight around my temples. What would Papa do? Chinwe’s light-
skinned face was at the center of the group, as usual.
“She is the girl in the middle,” I said. Was Papa going to talk to her?
Yank at her ears for coming first? I wanted the ground to open up and
swallow the whole compound.
“Look at her,” Papa said. “How many heads does she have?”
“One.” I did not need to look at her to know that, but I looked at her,
anyway.
Papa pulled a small mirror, the size of a powder compact, from his
pocket. “Look in the mirror.”
I stared at him.
“Look in the mirror.”
I took the mirror, peered at it.
“How many heads do you have, gbo?” Papa asked, speaking Igbo for
the first time.

“One.”
“The girl has one head, too, she does not have two. So why did you let
her come first?”
“It will not happen again, Papa.” A light dust lkuku was blowing, in
brown spirals like uncoiling springs, and I could taste the sand that settled
on my lips.
“Why do you think I work so hard to give you and Jaja the best? You
have to do something with all these privileges. Because God has given you
much, he expects much from you. He expects perfection. I didn’t have a
father who sent me to the best schools. My father spent his time worshiping
gods of wood and stone. I would be nothing today but for the priests and
sisters at the mission. I was a houseboy for the parish priest for two years.
Yes, a houseboy. Nobody dropped me off at school. I walked eight miles
every day to Nimo until I finished elementary school. I was a gardener for
the priests while I attended St. Gregory’s Secondary School.”
I had heard this all before, how hard he had worked, how much the
missionary Reverend Sisters and priests had taught him, things he would
never have learned from his idol-worshiping father, my Papa-Nnukwu. But
I nodded and looked alert. I hoped my class girls were not wondering why
my father and I had chosen to come to school to have a long conversation in
front of the classroom building. Finally, Papa stopped talking and took the
mirror back.
“Kevin will be here to pick you up,” he said.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Bye. Read well.” He hugged me, a brief side hug.
“Bye, Papa.” I was watching him walk down the path bordered by
flowerless green bushes when the assembly bell rang.
Assembly was raucous, and Mother Lucy had to say, “Now, girls, may
we have silence!” a few times. I stood in the front of the line as always,
because the back was for the girls who belonged to cliques, girls who
giggled and whispered to one another, shielded from the teachers. The
teachers stood on an elevated podium, tall statues in their white-and-blue
habits. After we sang a welcoming song from the Catholic Hymnal, Mother
Lucy read Matthew chapter five up to verse eleven, and then we sang the
national anthem. Singing the national anthem was relatively new at
Daughters of the Immaculate Heart. It had started last year, because some

parents were concerned that their children did not know the national anthem
or the pledge. I watched the sisters as we sang. Only the Nigerian Reverend
Sisters sang, teeth flashing against their dark skins. The white Reverend
Sisters stood with arms folded, or lightly touching the glass rosary beads
that dangled at their waists, carefully watching to see that every student’s
lips moved. Afterward, Mother Lucy narrowed her eyes behind her thick
lenses and scanned the lines. She always picked one student to start the
pledge before the others joined in.
“Kambili Achike, please start the pledge,” she said.
Mother Lucy had never chosen me before. I opened my mouth, but the
words would not come out.
“Kambili Achike?” Mother Lucy and the rest of the school had turned
to stare at me.
I cleared my throat, willed the words to come. I knew them, thought
them. But they would not come. The sweat was warm and wet under my
arms.
“Kambili?”
Finally, stuttering, I said, “I pledge to Nigeria, my country/To be
faithful, loyal, and honest…”
The rest of the school joined in, and while I mouthed along, I tried to
slow my breathing. After assembly, we filed to our classrooms. My class
went through the routine of settling down, scraping chairs, dusting desks,
copying the new term timetable written on the board.
“How was your holiday, Kambili?” Ezinne leaned over and asked.
“Fine.”
“Did you travel abroad?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say, but I wanted Ezinne to
know that I appreciated that she was always nice to me even though I was
awkward and tongue-tied. I wanted to say thank you for not laughing at me
and calling me a “backyard snob” the way the rest of the girls did, but the
words that came out were, “Did you travel?”
Ezinne laughed. “Me? O di egwu. It’s people like you and Gabriella
and Chinwe who travel, people with rich parents. I just went to the village
to visit my grandmother.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Why did your father come this morning?”

“I…I…” I stopped to take a breath because I knew I would stutter even
more if I didn’t. “He wanted to see my class.”
“You look a lot like him. I mean, you’re not big, but the features and
the complexion are the same,” Ezinne said.
“Yes.”
“I heard Chinwe took the first position from you last term. Abi?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure your parents didn’t mind. Ah! Ah! You have been coming
first since we started class one. Chinwe said her father took her to London.”
“Oh.”
“I came fifth and it was an improvement for me because I came eighth
the term before. You know, our class is very competitive. I used to always
come first in my primary school.”
Chinwe Jideze came over to Ezinne’s table then. She had a high,
birdlike voice. “I want to remain class prefect this term, Ezi-Butterfly, so
make sure you vote for me,” Chinwe said. Her school skirt was tight at the
waist, dividing her body into two rounded halves like the number 8.
“Of course,” Ezinne said.
I was not surprised when Chinwe walked past me to the girl at the next
desk and repeated herself, only with a different nickname that she had
thought up. Chinwe had never spoken to me, not even when we were placed
in the same agricultural science group to collect weeds for an album. The
girls flocked around her desk during short break, their laughter ringing out
often. Their hairstyles were usually exact copies of hers—black, thread-
covered sticks if Chinwe wore isi owu that week, or zigzagging cornrows
that ended in a pony tail atop their heads if Chinwe wore shuku that week.
Chinwe walked as if there were a hot object underfoot, raising each leg
almost as soon as her other foot touched the floor. During long break, she
bounced in front of a group of girls as they went to the tuck shop to buy
biscuits and coke. According to Ezinne, Chinwe paid for everyone’s soft
drinks. I usually spent long break reading in the library.
“Chinwe just wants you to talk to her first,” Ezinne whispered. “You
know, she started calling you backyard snob because you don’t talk to
anybody. She said just because your father owns a newspaper and all those
factories does not mean you have to feel too big, because her father is rich,
too.”

“I don’t feel too big.”
“Like today, at assembly, she said you were feeling too big, that was
why you didn’t start the pledge the first time Mother Lucy called you.”
“I didn’t hear the first time Mother Lucy called me.”
“I’m not saying you feel too big, I am saying that is what Chinwe and
most of the girls think. Maybe you should try and talk to her. Maybe after
school you should stop running off like that and walk with us to the gate.
Why do you always run, anyway?”
“I just like running,” I said, and wondered if I would count that as a lie
when I made confession next Saturday, if I would add it to the lie about not
having heard Mother Lucy the first time. Kevin always had the Peugeot 505
parked at the school gates right after the bells rang. Kevin had many other
chores to do for Papa and I was not allowed to keep him waiting, so I
always dashed out of my last class. Dashed, as though I were running the
200-meters race at the interhouse sports competition. Once, Kevin told Papa
I took a few minutes longer, and Papa slapped my left and right cheeks at
the same time, so his huge palms left parallel marks on my face and ringing
in my ears for days.
“Why?” Ezinne asked. “If you stay and talk to people, maybe it will
make them know that you are really not a snob.”
“I just like running,” I said again.

I remained a backyard snob to most of my class girls until the
end of term. But I did not worry too much about that because I carried a
bigger load—the worry of making sure I came first this term. It was like
balancing a sack of gravel on my head every day at school and not being
allowed to steady it with my hand. I still saw the print in my textbooks as a
red blur, still saw my baby brother’s spirit strung together by narrow lines
of blood. I memorized what the teachers said because I knew my textbooks
would not make sense if I tried to study later. After every test, a tough lump
like poorly made fufu formed in my throat and stayed there until our
exercise books came back.
School closed for Christmas break in early December. I peered into my
report card while Kevin was driving me home and saw 1/25, written in a
hand so slanted I had to study it to make sure it was not 7/25. That night, I
fell asleep hugging close the image of Papa’s face lit up, the sound of
Papa’s voice telling me how proud of me he was, how I had fulfilled God’s
purpose for me.

DUST-LADEN WINDS of harmattan came with December. They brought
the scent of the Sahara and Christmas, and yanked the slender, ovate leaves
down from the frangipani and the needlelike leaves from the whistling
pines, covering everything in a film of brown. We spent every Christmas in
our hometown. Sister Veronica called it the yearly migration of the Igbo.
She did not understand, she said in that Irish accent that rolled her words
across her tongue, why many Igbo people built huge houses in their
hometowns, where they spent only a week or two in December, yet were
content to live in cramped quarters in the city the rest of the year. I often
wondered why Sister Veronica needed to understand it, when it was simply
the way things were done.
The morning winds were swift on the day we left, pulling and pushing
the whistling pine trees so that they bent and twisted, as if bowing to a
dusty god, their leaves and branches making the same sound as a football
referee’s whistle. The cars were parked in the driveway, doors and boots
open, waiting to be loaded. Papa would drive the Mercedes, with Mama in
the front seat and Jaja and me in the back. Kevin would drive the factory

car with Sisi, and the factory driver, Sunday, who usually stood in when
Kevin took his yearly one-week leave, would drive the Volvo.
Papa stood by the hibiscuses, giving directions, one hand sunk in the
pocket of his white tunic while the other pointed from item to car. “The
suitcases go in the Mercedes, and those vegetables also. The yams will go
in the Peugeot 505, with the cases of Remy Martin and cartons of juice. See
if the stacks of okporoko will fit in, too. The bags of rice and garri and
beans and the plantains go in the Volvo.”
There was a lot to pack, and Adamu came over from the gate to help
Sunday and Kevin. The yams alone, wide tubers the size of young puppies,
filled the boot of the Peugeot 505, and even the front seat of the Volvo had a
bag of beans slanting across it, like a passenger who had fallen asleep.
Kevin and Sunday drove off first, and we followed, so that if the soldiers at
the roadblocks stopped them, he would see and stop, too.
Papa started the rosary before we drove out of our gated street. He
stopped at the end of the first decade so Mama could continue with the next
set of ten Hail Marys. Jaja led the next decade; then it was my turn. Papa
took his time driving. The expressway was a single lane, and when we got
behind a lorry he stayed put, muttering that the roads were unsafe, that the
people in Abuja had stolen all the money meant for making the
expressways dual-carriage. Many cars horned and overtook us; some were
so full of Christmas yams and bags of rice and crates of soft drinks that
their boots almost grazed the road.
At Ninth Mile, Papa stopped to buy bread and okpa. Hawkers
descended on our car, pushing boiled eggs, roasted cashew nuts, bottled
water, bread, okpa, agidi into every window of the car, chanting: “Buy from
me, oh, I will sell well to you.” Or “Look at me, I am the one you are
looking for.”
Although Papa bought only bread and okpa wrapped in hot banana
leaves, he gave a twenty-naira note to each of the other hawkers, and their
“Thank sir, God bless you” chants echoed in my ear as we drove off and
approached Abba.
The green WELCOME TO ABBA TOWN sign that led off the expressway
would have been easy to miss because it was so small. Papa turned onto the
dirt road, and soon I heard the screech-screech-screech of the low

underbelly of the Mercedes scraping the bumpy, sun-baked dirt road. As we
drove past, people waved and called out Papa’s title: “Omelora!” Mudand-
thatch huts stood close to three-story houses that nestled behind ornate
metal gates. Naked and seminaked children played with limp footballs. Men
sat on benches beneath trees, drinking palm wine from cow horns and
cloudy glass mugs. The car was coated in dust by the time we got to the
wide black gates of our country home. Three elderly men standing under
the lone ukwa tree near our gates waved and shouted, “Nno nu! Nno nu!
Have you come back? We will come in soon to say welcome!” Our gateman
threw the gates open.
“Thank you, Lord, for journey mercies,” Papa said as he drove into the
compound, crossing himself.
“Amen,” we said.
Our house still took my breath away, the four-story white majesty of it,
with the spurting fountain in front and the coconut trees flanking it on both
sides and the orange trees dotting the front yard. Three little boys rushed
into the compound to greet Papa. They had been chasing our cars down the
dirt road.
“Omelora! Good afun, sah!” they chorused. They wore only shorts,
and each one’s belly button was the size of a small balloon.
“Kedu nu?” Papa gave them each ten naira from a wad of notes he
pulled out of his hold-all. “Greet your parents, make sure you show them
this money.”
“Yes sah! Tank sah!” They dashed out of the compound, laughing
loudly.
Kevin and Sunday unpacked the foodstuffs while Jaja and I unpacked
the suitcases from the Mercedes. Mama went to the backyard with Sisi to
put away the cast iron cooking tripods. Our food would be cooked on the
gas cooker inside the kitchen, but the metal tripods would balance the big
pots that would cook rice and stews and soups for visitors. Some of the pots
were big enough to fit a whole goat. Mama and Sisi hardly did any of that
cooking; they simply stayed around and provided more salt, more Maggi
cubes, more utensils, because the wives of the members of our umunna
came over to do the cooking. They wanted Mama to rest, they said, after the
stress of the city. And every year they took the leftovers—the fat pieces of
meat, the rice and beans, the bottles of soft drink and maltina and beer—

home with them afterward. We were always prepared to feed the whole
village at Christmas, always prepared so that none of the people who came
in would leave without eating and drinking to what Papa called a reasonable
level of satisfaction. Papa’s title was omelora, after all, The One Who Does
for the Community. But it was not only Papa who received visitors; the
villagers trooped to every big house with a big gate, and sometimes they
took plastic bowls with firm covers. It was Christmas.
Jaja and I were upstairs unpacking when Mama came in and said,
“Ade Coker came by with his family to wish us a merry Christmas. They
are on their way to Lagos. Come downstairs and greet them.”
Ade Coker was a small, round, laughing man. Every time I saw him, I
tried to imagine him writing those editorials in the Standard; I tried to
imagine him defying the soldiers. And I could not. He looked like a stuffed
doll, and because he was always smiling, the deep dimples in his pillowy
cheeks looked like permanent fixtures, as though someone had sunk a stick
into his cheeks. Even his glasses looked dollish: they were thicker than
window louvers, tinted a strange bluish shade, and framed in white plastic.
He was throwing his baby, a perfectly round copy of himself, in the air
when we came in. His little daughter was standing close to him, asking him
to throw her in the air, too.
“Jaja, Kambili, how are you?” he said, and before we could reply, he
laughed his tinkling laugh and, gesturing to the baby, said, “You know they
say the higher you throw them when they’re young, the more likely they are
to learn how to fly!” The baby gurgled, showing pink gums, and reached
out for his father’s glasses. Ade Coker tilted his head back, threw the baby
up again.
His wife, Yewande, hugged us, asked how we were, then slapped Ade
Coker’s shoulder playfully and took the baby from him. I watched her and
remembered her loud, choking cries to Papa.
“Do you like coming to the village?” Ade Coker asked us.
We looked at Papa at the same time; he was on the sofa, reading a
Christmas card and smiling. “Yes,” we said.
“Eh? You like coming to this bush place?” His eyes widened
theatrically. “Do you have friends here?”
“No,” we said.

“So what do you do in this back of beyond, then?” he teased. Jaja and I
smiled and said nothing.
“They are always so quiet,” he said, turning to Papa. “So quiet.”
“They are not like those loud children people are raising these days,
with no home training and no fear of God,” Papa said, and I was certain that
it was pride that stretched Papa’s lips and lightened his eyes.
“Imagine what the Standard would be if we were all quiet.” It was a
joke. Ade Coker was laughing; so was his wife, Yewanda. But Papa did not
laugh. Jaja and I turned and went back upstairs, silently.

THE RUSTLING OF THE coconut fronds woke me up. Outside our high
gates, I could hear goats bleating and cocks crowing and people yelling
greetings across mud compound walls.
“Gudu morni. Have you woken up, eh? Did you rise well?”
“Gudu morni. Did the people of your house rise well, oh?”
I reached out to slide open my bedroom window, to hear the sounds
better and to let in the clean air tinged with goat droppings and ripening
oranges. Jaja tapped on my door before he came into my room. Our rooms
adjoined; back in Enugu, they were far apart.
“Are you up?” he asked. “Let’s go down for prayers before Papa calls
us.”
I tied my wrapper, which I had used as a light cover in the warm night,
over my nightdress, knotted it under my arm, and followed Jaja downstairs.
The wide passages made our house feel like a hotel, as did the
impersonal smell of doors kept locked most of the year, of unused
bathrooms and kitchens and toilets, of uninhabited rooms. We used only the
ground floor and first floor; the other two were last used years ago, when
Papa was made a chief and took his omelora title. The members of our
umunna had urged him for so long, even when he was still a manager at
Leventis and had not bought the first factory, to take a title. He was wealthy
enough, they insisted; besides, nobody among our umunna had ever taken a
title. So when Papa finally decided to, after extensive talks with the parish
priest and insisting that all pagan undertones be removed from his title-
taking ceremony, it was like a mini New Yam festival. Cars had taken up
every inch of the dirt road running through Abba. The third and fourth

floors had swarmed with people. Now I went up there only when I wanted
to see farther than the road just outside our compound walls.
“Papa is hosting a church council meeting today,” Jaja said. “I heard
him telling Mama.”
“What time is the meeting?”
“Before noon.” And with his eyes he said, We can spend time together
then.
In Abba, Jaja and I had no schedules. We talked more and sat alone in
our rooms less, because Papa was too busy entertaining the endless stream
of visitors and attending church council meetings at five in the morning and
town council meetings until midnight. Or maybe it was because Abba was
different, because people strolled into our compound at will, because the
very air we breathed moved more slowly.
Papa and Mama were in one of the small living rooms that led off the
main living room downstairs.
“Good morning, Papa. Good morning, Mama,” Jaja and I said.
“How are you both?” Papa asked.
“Fine,” we said.
Papa looked bright-eyed; he must have been awake for hours. He was
flipping through his Bible, the Catholic version with the deuterocanonical
books, bound in shiny black leather. Mama looked sleepy. She rubbed her
crusty eyes as she asked if we had slept well. I could hear voices from the
main living room. Guests arrived with dawn here. When we had made the
sign of the cross and gotten down on our knees, around the table, someone
knocked on the door. A middle-aged man in a threadbare T-shirt peeked in.
“Omelora!” the man said in the forceful tone people used when they
called others by their titles. “I am leaving now. I want to see if I can buy a
few Christmas things for my children at Oye Abagana.” He spoke English
with an Igbo accent so strong it decorated even the shortest words with
extra vowels. Papa liked it when the villagers made an effort to speak
English around him. He said it showed they had good sense.
“Ogbunambala!” Papa said. “Wait for me, I am praying with my
family. I want to give you a little something for the children. You will also
share my tea and bread with me.”
“Hei! Omelora! Thank sir. I have not drank milk this year.” The man
still hovered at the door. Perhaps he imagined that leaving would make

Papa’s promise of tea with milk disappear.
“Ogbunambala! Go and sit down and wait for me.”
The man retreated. Papa read from the psalms before saying the Our
Father, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be, and the Apostles Creed. Although we
spoke aloud after Papa said the first few words alone, an outer silence
enveloped us all, shrouding us. But when he said, “We will now pray to the
spirit in our own words, for the spirit intercedes for us in accordance with
His will,” the silence was broken. Our voices sounded loud, discordant.
Mama started with a prayer for peace and for the rulers of our country. Jaja
prayed for priests and for the religious. I prayed for the Pope. Finally, for
twenty minutes, Papa prayed for our protection from ungodly people and
forces, for Nigeria and the Godless men ruling it, and for us to continue to
grow in righteousness. Finally, he prayed for the conversion of our Papa-
Nnukwu, so that Papa-Nnukwu would be saved from hell. Papa spent some
time describing hell, as if God did not know that the flames were eternal
and raging and fierce. At the end we raised our voices and said, “Amen!”
Papa closed the Bible. “Kambili and Jaja, you will go this afternoon to
your grandfather’s house and greet him. Kevin will take you. Remember,
don’t touch any food, don’t drink anything. And, as usual, you will stay not
longer than fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, Papa.” We had heard this every Christmas for the past few years,
ever since we had started to visit Papa-Nnukwu. Papa-Nnukwu had called
an umunna meeting to complain to the extended family that he did not
know his grandchildren and that we did not know him. Papa-Nnukwu had
told Jaja and me this, as Papa did not tell us such things. Papa-Nnukwu had
told the umunna how Papa had offered to build him a house, buy him a car,
and hire him a driver, as long as he converted and threw away the chi in the
thatch shrine in his yard. Papa-Nnukwu laughed and said he simply wanted
to see his grandchildren when he could. He would not throw away his chi;
he had already told Papa this many times. The members of our umunna
sided with Papa, they always did, but they urged him to let us visit Papa-
Nnukwu, to greet him, because every man who was old enough to be called
grandfather deserved to be greeted by his grandchildren. Papa himself never
greeted Papa-Nnukwu, never visited him, but he sent slim wads of naira
through Kevin or through one of our umunna members, slimmer wads than
he gave Kevin as a Christmas bonus.

“I don’t like to send you to the home of a heathen, but God will protect
you,” Papa said. He put the Bible in a drawer and then pulled Jaja and me to
his side, gently rubbed the sides of our arms.
“Yes, Papa.”
He went into the large living room. I could hear more voices, more
people coming in to say “Nno nu” and complain about how hard life was,
how they could not buy new clothes for their children this Christmas.
“You and Jaja can have breakfast upstairs. I will bring the things up.
Your father will eat with the guests,” Mama said.
“Let me help you,” I offered.
“No, nne, go upstairs. Stay with your brother.”
I watched Mama walk toward the kitchen, in her limping gait. Her
braided hair was piled into a net that tapered to a golf-ball-like lump at the
end, like a Father Christmas hat. She looked tired.
“Papa-Nnukwu lives close by, we can walk there in five minutes, we
don’t need Kevin to take us,” Jaja said, as we went back upstairs. He said
that every year, but we always climbed into the car so that Kevin could take
us, so that he could watch us.
As Kevin drove us out of the compound later that morning, I turned to
allow my eyes to stroke, once again, the gleaming white walls and pillars of
our house, the perfect silver-colored water arch the fountain made. Papa-
Nnukwu had never set foot in it, because when Papa had decreed that
heathens were not allowed in his compound, he had not made an exception
for his father.
“Your father said you are to stay fifteen minutes,” Kevin said, as he
parked on the roadside, near Papa-Nnukwu’s thatchenclosed compound. I
stared at the scar on Kevin’s neck before I got out of the car. He had fallen
from a palm tree in his hometown in the Niger Delta area, a few years ago
while on vacation. The scar ran from the center of his head to the nape of
his neck. It was shaped like a dagger.
“We know,” Jaja said.
Jaja swung open Papa-Nnukwu’s creaking wooden gate, which was so
narrow that Papa might have to enter sideways if he ever were to visit. The
compound was barely a quarter of the size of our backyard in Enugu. Two
goats and a few chickens sauntered around, nibbling and pecking at drying
stems of grass. The house that stood in the middle of the compound was

small, compact like dice, and it was hard to imagine Papa and Aunty Ifeoma
growing up here. It looked just like the pictures of houses I used to draw in
kindergarten: a square house with a square door at the center and two
square windows on each side. The only difference was that Papa-Nnukwu’s
house had a verandah, which was bounded by rusty metal bars. The first
time Jaja and I visited, I had walked in looking for the bathroom, and Papa-
Nnukwu had laughed and pointed at the outhouse, a closet-size building of
unpainted cement blocks with a mat of entwined palm fronds pulled across
the gaping entrance. I had examined him that day, too, looking away when
his eyes met mine, for signs of difference, of Godlessness. I didn’t see any,
but I was sure they were there somewhere. They had to be.
Papa-Nnukwu was sitting on a low stool on the verandah, bowls of
food on a raffia mat before him. He rose as we came in. A wrapper was
slung across his body and tied behind his neck, over a once white singlet
now browned by age and yellowed at the armpits.
“Neke! Neke! Neke! Kambili and Jaja have come to greet their old
father!” he said. Although he was stooped with age, it was easy to see how
tall he once had been. He shook Jaja’s hand and hugged me. I pressed
myself to him just a moment longer, gently, holding my breath because of
the strong, unpleasant smell of cassava that clung to him.
“Come and eat,” he said, gesturing to the raffia mat. The enamel bowls
contained flaky fufu and watery soup bereft of chunks of fish or meat. It
was custom to ask, but Papa-Nnukwu expected us to say no—his eyes
twinkled with mischief.
“No, thank sir,” we said. We sat on the wood bench next to him. I
leaned back and rested my head on the wooden window shutters, which had
parallel openings running across them.
“I hear that you came in yesterday,” he said. His lower lip quivered, as
did his voice, and sometimes I understood him a moment or two after he
spoke because his dialect was ancient; his speech had none of the anglicized
inflections that ours had.
“Yes,” Jaja said.
“Kambili, you are so grown up now, a ripe agbogho. Soon the suitors
will start to come,” he said, teasing. His left eye was going blind and was
covered by a film the color and consistency of diluted milk. I smiled as he

stretched out to pat my shoulder; the age spots that dotted his hand stood
out because they were so much lighter than his soil-colored complexion.
“Papa-Nnukwu, are you well? How is your body?” Jaja asked.
Papa-Nnukwu shrugged as if to say there was a lot that was wrong but
he had no choice. “I am well, my son. What can an old man do but be well
until he joins his ancestors?” He paused to mold a lump of fufu with his
fingers. I watched him, the smile on his face, the easy way he threw the
molded morsel out toward the garden, where parched herbs swayed in the
light breeze, asking Ani, the god of the land, to eat with him. “My legs ache
often. Your Aunty Ifeoma brings me medicine when she can put the money
together. But I am an old man; if it is not my legs that ache, it will be my
hands.”
“Will Aunty Ifeoma and her children come back this year?” I asked.
Papa-Nnukwu scratched at the stubborn white tufts that clung to his
bald head. “Ehye, I expect them tomorrow.”
“They did not come last year,” Jaja said.
“Ifeoma could not afford it.” Papa-Nnukwu shook his head. “Since the
father of her children died, she has seen hard times. But she will bring them
this year. You will see them. It is not right that you don’t know them well,
your cousins. It is not right.”
Jaja and I said nothing. We did not know Aunty Ifeoma or her children
very well because she and Papa had quarreled about Papa-Nnukwu. Mama
had told us. Aunty Ifeoma stopped speaking to Papa after he barred Papa-
Nnukwu from coming to his house, and a few years passed before they
finally started speaking to each other.
“If I had meat in my soup,” Papa Nnukwu said, “I would offer it to
you.”
“It’s all right, Papa-Nnukwu,” Jaja said.
Papa-Nnukwu took his time swallowing his food. I watched the food
slide down his throat, struggling to get past his sagging Adam’s apple,
which pushed out of his neck like a wrinkled nut. There was no drink beside
him, not even water. “That child that helps me, Chinyelu, will come in
soon. I will send her to go and buy soft drinks for you two, from Ichie’s
shop,” he said.
“No, Papa-Nnukwu. Thank sir,” Jaja said.

“Ezi okwu? I know your father will not let you eat here because I offer
my food to our ancestors, but soft drinks also? Do I not buy that from the
store as everyone else does?”
“Papa-Nnukwu, we just ate before we came here,” Jaja said. “If we’re
thirsty, we will drink in your house.”
Papa-Nnukwu smiled. His teeth were yellowed and widely spaced
because of the many he had lost. “You have spoken well, my son. You are
my father, Ogbuefi Olioke, come back. He spoke with wisdom.”
I stared at the fufu on the enamel plate, which was chipped of its leaf-
green color at the edges. I imagined the fufu, dried to crusts by the
harmattan winds, scratching the inside of Papa-Nnukwu’s throat as he
swallowed. Jaja nudged me. But I did not want to leave; I wanted to stay so
that if the fufu clung to Papa-Nnukwu’s throat and choked him, I could run
and get him water. I did not know where the water was, though. Jaja nudged
me again and I still could not get up. The bench held me back, sucked me
in. I watched a gray rooster walk into the shrine at the corner of the yard,
where Papa-Nnukwu’s god was, where Papa said Jaja and I were never to
go near. The shrine was a low, open shed, its mud roof and walls covered
with dried palm fronds. It looked like the grotto behind St. Agnes, the one
dedicated to Our Lady of Lourdes.
“Let us go, Papa-Nnukwu,” Jaja said, finally, rising.
“All right, my son,” Papa-Nnukwu said. He did not say “What, so
soon?” or “Does my house chase you away?” He was used to our leaving
moments after we arrived. When he walked us to the car, balancing on his
crooked walking stick made from a tree branch, Kevin came out of the car
and greeted him, then handed him a slim wad of cash.
“Oh? Thank Eugene for me,” Papa-Nnukwu said, smiling. “Thank
him.”
He waved as we drove off. I waved back and kept my eyes on him
while he shuffled back into his compound. If Papa-Nnukwu minded that his
son sent him impersonal, paltry amounts of money through a driver, he
didn’t show it. He hadn’t shown it last Christmas, or the Christmas before.
He had never shown it. It was so different from the way Papa had treated
my maternal grandfather until he died five years ago. When we arrived at
Abba every Christmas, Papa would stop by Grandfather’s house at our ikwu
nne, Mother’s maiden home, before we even drove to our own compound.

Grandfather was very light-skinned, almost albino, and it was said to be one
of the reasons the missionaries had liked him. He determinedly spoke
English, always, in a heavy Igbo accent. He knew Latin, too, often quoted
the articles of Vatican I, and spent most of his time at St. Paul’s, where he
had been the first catechist. He had insisted that we call him Grandfather, in
English, rather than Papa-Nnukwu or Nna-Ochie. Papa still talked about
him often, his eyes proud, as if Grandfather were his own father. He opened
his eyes before many of our people did, Papa would say; he was one of the
few who welcomed the missionaries. Do you know how quickly he learned
English? When he became an interpreter, do you know how many converts
he helped win? Why, he converted most of Abba himself! He did things the
right way, the way the white people did, not what our people do now! Papa
had a photo of Grandfather, in the full regalia of the Knights of St. John,
framed in deep mahogany and hung on our wall back in Enugu. I did not
need that photo to remember Grandfather, though. I was only ten when he
died, but I remembered his almost-green albino eyes, the way he seemed to
use the word sinner in every sentence.
“Papa-Nnukwu does not look as healthy as last year,” I whispered
close to Jaja’s ear as we drove off. I did not want Kevin to hear.
“He is an old man,” Jaja said.
When we got home, Sisi brought up our lunch, rice and fried beef, on
fawn-colored elegant plates, and Jaja and I ate alone. The church council
meeting had started, and we heard the male voices rise sometimes in
argument, just as we heard the up-down cadence of the female voices in the
backyard, the wives of our umunna who were oiling pots to make them
easier to wash later and grinding spices in wooden mortars and starting fires
underneath the tripods.
“Will you confess it?” I asked Jaja, as we ate.
“What?”
“What you said today, that if we were thirsty, we would drink in Papa-
Nnukwu’s house. You know we can’t drink in Papa-Nnukwu’s house,” I
said.
“I just wanted to say something to make him feel better.”
“He takes it well.”
“He hides it well,” Jaja said.

Papa opened the door then and came in. I had not heard him come up
the stairs, and besides, I did not think he would come up because the church
council meeting was still going on downstairs.
“Good afternoon, Papa,” Jaja and I said.
“Kevin said you stayed up to twenty-five minutes with your
grandfather. Is that what I told you?” Papa’s voice was low.
“I wasted time, it was my fault,” Jaja said.
“What did you do there? Did you eat food sacrificed to idols? Did you
desecrate your Christian tongue?”
I sat frozen; I did not know that tongues could be Christian, too.
“No,” Jaja said.
Papa was walking toward Jaja. He spoke entirely in Igbo now. I
thought he would pull at Jaja’s ears, that he would tug and yank at the same
pace as he spoke, that he would slap Jaja’s face and his palm would make
that sound, like a heavy book falling from a library shelf in school. And
then he would reach across and slap me on the face with the casualness of
reaching for the pepper shaker. But he said, “I want you to finish that food
and go to your rooms and pray for forgiveness,” before turning to go back
downstairs. The silence he left was heavy but comfortable, like a well-
worn, prickly cardigan on a bitter morning.
“You still have rice on your plate,” Jaja said, finally.
I nodded and picked up my fork. Then I heard Papa’s raised voice just
outside the window and put the fork down.
“What is he doing in my house? What is Anikwenwa doing in my
house?” The enraged timber in Papa’s voice made my fingers cold at the
tips. Jaja and I dashed to the window, and because we could see nothing, we
dashed out to the verandah and stood by the pillars.
Papa was standing in the front yard, near an orange tree, screaming at a
wrinkled old man in a torn white singlet and a wrapper wound round his
waist. A few other men stood around Papa.
“What is Anikwenwa doing in my house? What is a worshiper of idols
doing in my house? Leave my house!”
“Do you know that I am in your father’s age group, gbo?” the old man
asked. The finger he waved in the air was meant for Papa’s face, but it only
hovered around his chest. “Do you know that I sucked my mother’s breast
when your father sucked his mother’s?”

“Leave my house!” Papa pointed at the gate.
Two men slowly ushered Anikwenwa out of the compound. He did not
resist; he was too old to, anyway. But he kept looking back and throwing
words at Papa. “Ifukwa gi! You are like a fly blindly following a corpse into
the grave!”
I followed the old man’s unsteady gait until he walked out through the
gates.

Aunty Ifeoma came the next day, in the evening, when the
orange trees started to cast long, wavy shadows across the water fountain in
the front yard. Her laughter floated upstairs into the living room, where I sat
reading. I had not heard it in two years, but I would know that cackling,
hearty sound anywhere. Aunty Ifeoma was as tall as Papa, with a well-
proportioned body. She walked fast, like one who knew just where she was
going and what she was going to do there. And she spoke the way she
walked, as if to get as many words out of her mouth as she could in the
shortest time.
“Welcome, Aunty, nno,” I said, rising to hug her.
She did not give me the usual brief side hug. She clasped me in her
arms and held me tightly against the softness of her body. The wide lapels
of her blue, A-line dress smelled of lavender.
“Kambili, kedu?” A wide smile stretched her dark-complected face,
revealing a gap between her front teeth.
“I’m fine, Aunty.”
“You have grown so much. Look at you, look at you.” She reached out
and pulled my left breast. “Look how fast these are growing!”
I looked away and inhaled deeply so that I would not start to stutter. I
did not know how to handle that kind of playfulness.
“Where is Jaja?” she asked.
“He’s asleep. He has a headache.”
“A headache three days to Christmas? No way. I will wake him up and
cure that headache.” Aunty Ifeoma laughed. “We got here before noon; we
left Nsukka really early and would have gotten here sooner if the car didn’t
break down on the road, but it was near Ninth Mile, thank God, so it was
easy finding a mechanic.”
“Thanks be to God,” I said. Then, after a pause I asked, “How are my
cousins?” It was the polite thing to say; still, I felt strange asking about the
cousins I hardly knew.
“They’re coming soon. They’re with your Papa-Nnukwu, and he had
just started one of his stories. You know how he likes to go on and on.”
“Oh,” I said. I did not know that Papa-Nnukwu liked to go on and on. I
did not even know that he told stories.

Mama came in holding a tray piled high with bottles of soft and malt
drinks lying on their sides. A plate of chin-chin was balanced on top of the
drinks.
“Nwunye m, who are those for?” Aunty Ifeoma asked.
“You and the children,” Mama said. “Did you not say the children
were coming soon, okwia?”
“You should not have bothered, really. We bought okpa on our way
and just ate it.”
“Then I will put the chin-chin in a bag for you,” Mama said. She
turned to leave the room. Her wrapper was dressy, with yellow print
designs, and her matching blouse had yellow lace sewn onto the puffy, short
sleeves.
“Nwunye m,” Aunty Ifeoma called, and Mama turned back.
The first time I heard Aunty Ifeoma call Mama “nwunye m,” years
ago, I was aghast that a woman called another woman “my wife.” When I
asked, Papa said it was the remnants of ungodly traditions, the idea that it
was the family and not the man alone that married a wife, and later Mama
whispered, although we were alone in my room, “I am her wife, too,
because I am your father’s wife. It shows that she accepts me.”
“Nwunye m, come and sit down. You look tired. Are you well?” Aunty
Ifeoma asked.
A tight smile appeared on Mama’s face. “I am well, very well. I have
been helping the wives of our umunna with the cooking.”
“Come and sit down,” Aunty Ifeoma said again. “Come and sit down
and rest. The wives of our umunna can look for the salt themselves and find
it. After all, they are all here to take from you, to wrap meat in banana
leaves when nobody is looking and then sneak it home.” Aunty Ifeoma
laughed.
Mama sat down next to me. “Eugene is arranging for extra chairs to be
put outside, especially on Christmas day. So many people have come
already.”
“You know our people have no other work at Christmas than to go
from house to house,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “But you can’t stay here serving
them all day. We should take the children to Abagana for the Aro festival
tomorrow, to look at the mmuo.”
“Eugene will not let the children go to a heathen festival,” Mama said.

“Heathen festival, kwa? Everybody goes to Aro to look at the mmuo.”
“I know, but you know Eugene.”
Aunty Ifeoma shook her head slowly. “I will tell him we are going for
a drive, so we can all spend time together, especially the children.”
Mama fiddled with her fingers and said nothing for a while. Then she
asked, “When will you take the children to their father’s hometown?”
“Perhaps today, although I don’t have the strength for Ifediora’s family
right now. They eat more and more shit every year. The people in his
umunna said he left money somewhere and I have been hiding it. Last
Christmas, one of the women from their compound even told me I had
killed him. I wanted to stuff sand in her mouth. Then I thought that I should
sit her down, eh, and explain that you do not kill a husband you love, that
you do not orchestrate a car accident in which a trailer rams into your
husband’s car, but again, why waste my time? They all have the brains of
guinea fowls.” Aunty Ifeoma made a loud hissing sound. “I don’t know
how much longer I will take my children there.”
Mama clucked in sympathy. “People do not always talk with sense.
But it is good that the children go, especially the boys. They need to know
their father’s homestead and the members of their father’s umunna.”
“I honestly do not know how Ifediora came from an umunna like that.”
I watched their lips move as they spoke; Mama’s bare lips were pale
compared to Aunty Ifeoma’s, covered in a shiny bronze lipstick.
“Umunna will always say hurtful things,” Mama said. “Did our own
umunna not tell Eugene to take another wife because a man of his stature
cannot have just two children? If people like you had not been on my side
then…”
“Stop it, stop being grateful. If Eugene had done that, he would have
been the loser, not you.”
“So you say. A woman with children and no husband, what is that?”
“Me.”
Mama shook her head. “You have come again, Ifeoma. You know what
I mean. How can a woman live like that?” Mama’s eyes had grown round,
taking up more space on her face.
“Nwunye m, sometimes life begins when marriage ends.”
“You and your university talk. Is this what you tell your students?”
Mama was smiling.

“Seriously, yes. But they marry earlier and earlier these days. What is
the use of a degree, they ask me, when we cannot find a job after
graduation?”
“At least somebody will take care of them when they marry.”
“I don’t know who will take care of whom. Six girls in my first-year
seminar class are married, their husbands visit in Mercedes and Lexus cars
every weekend, their husbands buy them stereos and textbooks and
refrigerators, and when they graduate, the husbands own them and their
degrees. Don’t you see?”
Mama shook her head. “University talk again. A husband crowns a
woman’s life, Ifeoma. It is what they want.”
“It is what they think they want. But how can I blame them? Look
what this military tyrant is doing to our country.” Aunty Ifeoma closed her
eyes, in the way that people do when they want to remember something
unpleasant. “We have not had fuel for three months in Nsukka. I spent the
night in the petrol station last week, waiting for fuel. And at the end, the
fuel did not come. Some people left their cars in the station because they
did not have enough fuel to drive back home. If you could see the
mosquitoes that bit me that night, eh, the bumps on my skin were as big as
cashew nuts.”
“Oh.” Mama shook her head sympathetically. “How are things
generally at the university, though?”
“We just called off yet another strike, even though no lecturer has been
paid for the last two months. They tell us the Federal Government has no
money.” Aunty Ifeoma chuckled with little humor. “Ifukwa, people are
leaving the country. Phillipa left two months ago. You remember my friend
Phillipa?”
“She came back with you for Christmas a few years ago. Dark and
plump?”
“Yes. She is now teaching in America. She shares a cramped office
with another adjunct professor, but she says at least teachers are paid there.”
Aunty Ifeoma stopped and reached out to brush something off Mama’s
blouse. I watched every movement she made; I could not tear my ears away.
It was the fearlessness about her, about the way she gestured as she spoke,
the way she smiled to show that wide gap.

“I have brought out my old kerosene stove,” she continued. “It is what
we use now; we don’t even smell the kerosene in the kitchen anymore. Do
you know how much a cooking-gas cylinder costs? It is outrageous!”
Mama shifted on the sofa. “Why don’t you tell Eugene? There are gas
cylinders in the factory…”
Aunty Ifeoma laughed, patted Mama’s shoulder fondly “Nwunye m,
things are tough, but we are not dying yet. I tell you all these things because
it is you. With someone else, I would rub Vaseline on my hungry face until
it shone.”
Papa came in then, on his way to his bedroom. I was sure it was to get
more stacks of naira notes that he would give to visitors for igba krismas,
and then tell them “It is from God, not me” when they started to sing their
thanks.
“Eugene,” Aunty Ifeoma called out. “I was saying that Jaja and
Kambili should spend some time with me and the children tomorrow.”
Papa grunted and kept walking to the door.
“Eugene!”
Every time Aunty Ifeoma spoke to Papa, my heart stopped, then
started again in a hurry. It was the flippant tone; she did not seem to
recognize that it was Papa, that he was different, special. I wanted to reach
out and press her lips shut and get some of that shiny bronze lipstick on my
fingers.
“Where do you want to take them?” Papa asked, standing by the door.
“Just to look around.”
“Sightseeing?” Papa asked. He spoke English, while Aunty Ifeoma
spoke Igbo.
“Eugene, let the children come out with us!” Aunty Ifeoma sounded
irritated; her voice was slightly raised. “Is it not Christmas that we are
celebrating, eh? The children have never really spent time with one another.
Imakwa, my little one, Chima, does not even know Kambili’s name.”
Papa looked at me and then at Mama, searched our faces as if looking
for letters beneath our noses, above our foreheads, on our lips, that would
spell something he would not like. “Okay. They can go with you, but you
know I do not want my children near anything ungodly. If you drive past
mmuo, keep your windows up.”

“I have heard you, Eugene,” Aunty Ifeoma said, with an exaggerated
formality.
“Why don’t we all have lunch on Christmas day?” Papa asked. “The
children can spend time together then.”
“You know that the children and I spend Christmas day with their
Papa-Nnukwu.”
“What do idol worshipers know about Christmas?”
“Eugene…” Aunty Ifeoma took a deep breath. “Okay, the children and
I will come on Christmas day.”
Papa had gone back downstairs, and I was still sitting on the sofa,
watching Aunty Ifeoma talk to Mama, when my cousins arrived. Amaka
was a thinner, teenage copy of her mother. She walked and talked even
faster and with more purpose than Aunty Ifeoma did. Only her eyes were
different; they did not have the unconditional warmth of Aunty Ifeoma’s.
They were quizzical eyes, eyes that asked many questions and did not
accept many answers. Obiora was a year younger, very lightskinned, with
honey-colored eyes behind thick glasses, and his mouth turned up at the
sides in a perpetual smile. Chima had skin as dark as the bottom of a burnt
pot of rice, and was tall for a boy of seven. They all laughed alike: throaty,
cackling sounds pushed out with enthusiasm.
They greeted Papa, and when he gave them money for igba krismas,
Amaka and Obiora thanked him, holding out the two thick wads of naira
notes. Their eyes were politely surprised, to show that they were not
presumptuous, that they had not expected money.
“You have satellite here, don’t you?” Amaka asked me. It was the first
thing she said after we greeted each other. Her hair was cut short, higher at
the front and gradually reducing in an arch until it got to the back of her
head, where there was little hair.
“Yes.”
“Can we watch CNN?”
I forced a cough out of my throat; I hoped I would not stutter.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Amaka continued, “because right now I think
we’re going to visit my dad’s family in Ukpo.”
“We don’t watch a lot of TV,” I said.
“Why?” Amaka asked. It was so unlikely that we were the same age,
fifteen. She seemed so much older, or maybe it was her striking

resemblance to Aunty Ifeoma or the way she stared me right in the eyes.
“Because you’re bored with it? If only we all had satellite so everybody
could be bored with it.”
I wanted to say I was sorry, that I did not want her to dislike us for not
watching satellite. I wanted to tell her that although huge satellite dishes
lounged on top of the houses in Enugu and here, we did not watch TV. Papa
did not pencil in TV time on our schedules.
But Amaka had turned to her mother, who was sitting hunched with
Mama. “Mom, if we are going to Ukpo, we should leave soon so we can get
back before Papa-Nnukwu falls asleep.”
Aunty Ifeoma rose. “Yes, nne, we should leave.”
She held Chima’s hand as they all walked downstairs. Amaka said
something, pointing at our banister, with its heavy handcarved detail, and
Obiora laughed. She did not turn to say good-bye to me, although the boys
did and Aunty Ifeoma waved and said, “I’ll see you and Jaja tomorrow.”

AUNTY IFEOMA DROVE into the compound just as we finished breakfast.
When she barged into the dining room upstairs, I imagined a proud ancient
forebear, walking miles to fetch water in homemade clay pots, nursing
babies until they walked and talked, fighting wars with machetes sharpened
on sun-warmed stone. She filled a room. “Are you ready, Jaja and
Kambili?” she asked. “Nwunye m, will you not come with us?”
Mama shook her head. “You know Eugene likes me to stay around.”
“Kambili, I think you will be more comfortable in trousers,” Aunty
Ifeoma said as we walked to the car.
“I’m fine, Aunty,” I said. I wondered why I did not tell her that all my
skirts stopped well past my knees, that I did not own any trousers because it
was sinful for a woman to wear trousers.
Her Peugeot 504 station wagon was white and rusted to an unpleasant
brown at the fenders. Amaka was seated in the front; Obiora and Chima
were in the back seat. Jaja and I climbed into the middle seats. Mama stood
watching until the car disappeared from her sight. I knew because I felt her
eyes, felt her presence. The car made rattling sounds as if some bolts had
come loose and were shaking with every rise and fall of the bumpy road.
There were gaping rectangular spaces on the dashboard instead of air-

conditioner vents, so the windows were kept down. Dust sailed across my
mouth, into my eyes and nose.
“We’re going to pick up Papa-Nnukwu, he will come with us,” Aunty
Ifeoma said.
I felt a lurch in my stomach and I glanced at Jaja. His eyes met mine.
What would we tell Papa? Jaja looked away; he did not have an answer.
Before Aunty Ifeoma stopped the engine in front of the mud-and-
thatch-enclosed compound, Amaka had opened the front door and bounded
out. “I’ll fetch Papa-Nnukwu!”
The boys climbed out of the car and followed Amaka past the small
wooden gate.
“Don’t you want to come out?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, turning to Jaja
and me.
I looked away. Jaja was sitting as still as I was.
“You don’t want to come into your Papa-Nnukwu’s compound? But
didn’t you come to greet him two days ago?” Aunty Ifeoma widened her
eyes to stare at us.
“We are not allowed to come here after we’ve greeted him,” Jaja said
“What kind of nonsense is that, eh?” Aunty Ifeoma stopped then,
perhaps remembering that the rules were not ours. “Tell me, why do you
think your father doesn’t want you here?”
“I don’t know,” Jaja said.
I sucked my tongue to unfreeze it, tasting the gritty dust. “Because
Papa-Nnukwu is a pagan.” Papa would be proud that I had said that.
“Your Papa-Nnukwu is not a pagan, Kambili, he is a traditionalist,”
Aunty Ifeoma said.
I stared at her. Pagan, traditionalist, what did it matter? He was not
Catholic, that was all; he was not of the faith. He was one of the people
whose conversion we prayed for so that they did not end in the everlasting
torment of hellfire.
We sat silently until the gate swung open and Amaka came out,
walking close enough to Papa-Nnukwu to support him if he needed it. The
boys walked behind them. Papa-Nnukwu wore a loose print shirt and a pair
of knee-length khaki shorts. I had never seen him in anything but the
threadbare wrappers that were wound around his body when we visited
him.

“I got him those shorts,” Aunty Ifeoma said, with a laugh. “See how he
looks so youthful, who would believe he is eighty?”
Amaka helped Papa-Nnukwu get into the front seat, and then she got
in the middle with us.
“Papa-Nnukwu, good afternoon sir,” Jaja and I greeted.
“Kambili, Jaja, I see you again before you go back to the city? Ehye, it
is a sign that I am going soon to meet the ancestors.”
“Nna anyi, are you not tired of predicting your death?” Aunty Ifeoma
said, starting the engine. “Let us hear something new!” She called him nna
anyi, our father. I wondered if Papa used to call him that and what Papa
would call him now if they spoke to each other.
“He likes to talk about dying soon,” Amaka said, in amused English.
“He thinks that will get us to do things for him,”
“Dying soon indeed. He’ll be here when we are as old as he is now,”
Obiora said, in equally amused English.
“What are those children saying, gbo, Ifeoma?” Papa-Nnukwu asked.
“Are they conspiring to share my gold and many lands? Will they not wait
for me to go first?”
“If you had gold and lands, we would have killed you ourselves years
ago,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
My cousins laughed, and Amaka glanced at Jaja and me, perhaps
wondering why we did not laugh, too. I wanted to smile, but we were
driving past our house just then, and the sight of the looming black gates
and white walls stiffened my lips.
“This is what our people say to the High God, the Chukwu,” Papa-
Nnukwu said. “Give me both wealth and a child, but if I must choose one,
give me a child because when my child grows, so will my wealth.” Papa-
Nnukwu stopped, turned to look back toward our house. “Nekenem, look at
me. My son owns that house that can fit in every man in Abba, and yet
many times I have nothing to put on my plate. I should not have let him
follow those missionaries.”
“Nna anyi,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “It was not the missionaries. Did I not
go to the missionary school, too?”
“But you are a woman. You do not count.”
“Eh? So I don’t count? Has Eugene ever asked about your aching leg?
If I do not count, then I will stop asking if you rose well in the morning.”

Papa-Nnukwu chuckled. “Then my spirit will haunt you when I join
the ancestors.”
“It will haunt Eugene first.”
“I joke with you, nwa m. Where would I be today if my chi had not
given me a daughter?” Papa Nnukwu paused. “My spirit will intercede for
you, so that Chukwu will send a good man to take care of you and the
children.”
“Let your spirit ask Chukwu to hasten my promotion to senior lecturer,
that is all I ask,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
Papa-Nnukwu did not reply for a while, and I wondered if the mix of
high life music from the car radio and the rattling of the loose screws and
the harmattan haze had eased him into sleep.
“Still, I say it was the missionaries that misled my son,” he said,
startling me.
“We have heard this many times. Tell us something else,” Aunty
Ifeoma said. But Papa-Nnukwu kept talking as though he had not heard her.
“I remember the first one that came to Abba, the one they called Fada
John. His face was red like palm oil; they say our type of sun does not shine
in the white man’s land. He had a helper, a man from Nimo called Jude. In
the afternoon they gathered the children under the ukwa tree in the mission
and taught them their religion. I did not join them, kpa, but I went
sometimes to see what they were doing. One day I said to them, Where is
this god you worship? They said he was like Chukwu, that he was in the
sky. I asked then, Who is the person that was killed, the person that hangs
on the wood outside the mission? They said he was the son, but that the son
and the father are equal. It was then that I knew that the white man was
mad. The father and the son are equal? Tufia! Do you not see? That is why
Eugene can disregard me, because he thinks we are equal.”
My cousins chuckled. So did Aunty Ifeoma, who soon stopped and
said to Papa-Nnukwu, “It is enough, close your mouth and rest. We are
almost there and you will need your energy to tell the children about the
mmuo.”
“Papa-Nnukwu, are you comfortable?” Amaka asked, leaning across
toward the front seat. “Do you want me to adjust your seat, to make more
room for you?”

“No, I am fine. I am an old man now and my height is gone. I would
not have fit in this car in my prime. In those days, I plucked icheku from the
trees by just reaching out high; I did not need to climb.”
“Of course,” Aunty Ifeoma said, laughing again. “And could you not
reach out and touch the sky, too?”
She laughed so easily, so often. They all did, even little Chima.
When we got to Ezi Icheke, cars lined the road almost bumper to
bumper. The crowds that pressed around the cars were so dense there was
no space between people and they blended into one another, wrappers
blended into T-shirts, trousers into skirts, dresses into shirts. Aunty Ifeoma
finally found a spot and eased the station wagon in. The mmuo had started
to walk past, and often a long line of cars waited for an mmuo to walk past
so they could drive on. Hawkers were at every corner, with glass-enclosed
cases of akara and suya and browned chicken drumsticks, with trays of
peeled oranges, with coolers the size of bathtubs full of Walls banana ice
cream. It was like a vibrant painting that had come alive. I had never been
to see mmuo, to sit in a stationary car alongside thousands of people who
had all come to watch. Papa had driven us past the crowds at Ezi Icheke
once, some years ago, and he muttered about ignorant people participating
in the ritual of pagan masquerades. He said that the stories about mmuo,
that they were spirits who had climbed out of ant holes, that they could
make chairs run and baskets hold water, were all devilish folklore. Devilish
Folklore. It sounded dangerous the way Papa said it.
“Look at this,” Papa-Nnukwu said. “This is a woman spirit, and the
women mmuo are harmless. They do not even go near the big ones at the
festival.” The mmuo he pointed to was small; its carved wooden face had
angular, pretty features and rouged lips. It stopped often to dance, wiggling
this way and that, so that the string of beads around its waist swayed and
rippled. The crowds nearby cheered, and some people threw money toward
it. Little boys—the followers of the mmuo who were playing music with
metal ogenes and wooden ichakas—picked up the crumpled naira notes.
They had hardly passed us when Papa Nnukwu shouted, “Look away!
Women cannot look at this one!”
The mmuo making its way down the road was surrounded by a few
elderly men who rang a shrill bell as the mmuo walked. Its mask was a real,
grimacing human skull with sunken eye sockets. A squirming tortoise was

tied to its forehead. A snake and three dead chickens hung from its grass-
covered body, swinging as the mmuo walked. The crowds near the road
moved back quickly, fearfully. A few women turned and dashed into nearby
compounds.
Aunty Ifeoma looked amused, but she turned her head away. “Don’t
look, girls. Let’s humor your grandfather,” she said in English. Amaka had
already looked away. I looked away, too, toward the crowd of people that
pressed around the car. It was sinful, deferring to a heathen masquerade.
But at least I had looked at it very briefly, so maybe it would technically not
be deferring to a heathen masquerade.
“That is our agwonatumbe,” Papa-Nnukwu said, proudly, after the
mmuo had walked past. “It is the most powerful mmuo in our parts, and all
the neighboring villages fear Abba because of it. At last year’s Aro festival,
agwonatumbe raised a staff and all the other mmuo turned and ran! They
didn’t even wait to see what would happen!”
“Look!” Obiora pointed at another mmuo moving down the road. It
was like a floating white cloth, flat, taller than the huge avocado tree in our
yard in Enugu. Papa-Nnukwu grunted as the mmuo went by. It was eerie,
watching it, and I thought then of chairs running, their four legs knocking
together, of water being held in a basket, of human forms climbing out of
ant holes.
“How do they do that, Papa-Nnukwu? How do people get inside that
one?” Jaja asked.
“Shh! These are mmuo, spirits! Don’t speak like a woman!” Papa-
Nnukwu snapped, turning to glare at Jaja.
Aunty Ifeoma laughed and spoke in English. “Jaja, you’re not
supposed to say there are people in there. Didn’t you know that?”
“No,” Jaja said.
She was watching Jaja. “You didn’t do the ima mmuo, did you? Obiora
did it two years ago in his father’s hometown.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jaja mumbled.
I looked at Jaja and wondered if the dimness in his eyes was shame. I
suddenly wished, for him, that he had done the ima mmuo, the initiation
into the spirit world. I knew very little about it; women were not supposed
to know anything at all, since it was the first step toward the initiation to
manhood. But Jaja once told me that he heard that boys were flogged and

made to bathe in the presence of a taunting crowd. The only time Papa had
talked about ima mmuo was to say that the Christians who let their sons do
it were confused, that they would end up in hellfire.
We left Ezi Icheke soon afterward. Aunty Ifeoma dropped off a sleepy
Papa-Nnukwu first; his good eye was half closed while his going-blind eye
stayed open, the film covering it looked thicker now, like concentrated
milk. When Aunty Ifeoma stopped inside our compound, she asked her
children if they wanted to come into the house, and Amaka said no, in a
loud voice that seemed to prompt her brothers to say the same. Aunty
Ifeoma took us in, waved to Papa, who was in the middle of a meeting, and
hugged Jaja and me in her tight way before leaving.
That night, I dreamed that I was laughing, but it did not sound like my
laughter, although I was not sure what my laughter sounded like. It was
cackling and throaty and enthusiastic, like Aunty Ifeoma’s.

Papa drove us to Christmas Mass at St. Paul’s. Aunty Ifeoma and
her children were climbing into their station wagon as we drove into the
sprawling church compound. They waited for Papa to stop the Mercedes
and then came over to greet us. Aunty Ifeoma said they had gone to the
early Mass and they would see us at lunchtime. She looked taller, even
more fearless, in a red wrapper and high heels. Amaka wore the same bright
red lipstick as her mother; it made her teeth seem whiter when she smiled
and said, “Merry Christmas.”
Although I tried to concentrate on Mass, I kept thinking of Amaka’s
lipstick, wondering what it felt like to run color over your lips. It was even
harder to keep my mind on Mass because the priest, who spoke Igbo
throughout, did not talk about the gospel during the sermon. Instead he
talked about zinc and cement. “You people think I ate the money for the
zinc, okwia?” he shouted, gesticulating, pointing accusingly at the
congregation. “After all, how many of you give to this church, gbo? How
can we build the house if you don’t give? Do you think zinc and cement
cost a mere ten kobo?”
Papa wished the priest would talk about something else, something
about the birth in the manger, about the shepherds and the guiding star; I
knew from the way Papa held his missal too tight, the way he shifted often
on the pew. We were sitting in the first pew. An usher wearing a Blessed
Virgin Mary medal on her white cotton dress had rushed forward to seat us,
telling Papa in loud, urgent whispers that the front pews were reserved for
the important people; Chief Umeadi, the only man in Abba whose house
was bigger than ours, sat on our left, and His Royal Highness, the Igwe,
was on our right. The Igwe came over to shake Papa’s hand during Peace
and Love, and he said, “Nno nu, I will stop by later, so we can greet
properly.”
After Mass, we accompanied Papa to a fund-raising in the
multipurpose hall next to the church building. It was for the priest’s new
house. An usher with a scarf tied tight across her forehead passed out
pamphlets with pictures of the priest’s old house, uncertain arrows pointing
at where the roof leaked, where termites had eaten up the door frames. Papa
wrote a check and handed it to the usher, telling her he did not want to make
a speech. When the M.C. announced the amount, the priest got up and

started to dance, jerking his behind this way and that, and the crowd rose up
and cheered so loudly it was like the rumblings of thunder at the end of
rainy season.
“Let’s go,” Papa said, when the M.C. finally moved on to announce a
new donation. He led the way out of the hall, smiling and waving at the
many hands that reached out to grasp his white tunic as if touching him
would heal them of an illness.
When we got home, all the couches and sofas in the living room were
full; some people were perched on the side tables. The men and women all
rose when Papa came in, and chants of “Omelora!” filled the air. Papa went
about shaking hands and hugging and saying “Merry Christmas” and “God
bless you.” Somebody had left the door that led to the backyard open, and
the blue-gray firewood smoke that hung heavy in the living room blurred
the facial features of the guests. I could hear the wives of the umunna,
chattering in the backyard, scooping soup and stew from the huge pots on
the fire into bowls that would be taken to serve the people.
“Come and greet the wives of our umunna,” Mama said to Jaja and
me.
We followed her out to the backyard. The women clapped and hooted
when Jaja and I said, “Nno nu.” Welcome.
They all looked alike, in ill-fitting blouses, threadbare wrappers, and
scarves tied around their heads. They all had the same wide smile, the same
chalk-colored teeth, the same sundried skin the color and texture of
groundnut husks.
“Nekene, see the boy that will inherit his father’s riches!” one woman
said, hooting even more loudly, her mouth shaped like a narrow tunnel.
“If we did not have the same blood in our veins, I would sell you my
daughter,” another said to Jaja. She was squatting near the fire, arranging
the firewood underneath the tripod. The others laughed.
“The girl is a ripe agbogho! Very soon a strong young man will bring
us palm wine!” another said. Her dirty wrapper was not knotted properly,
and one end trailed in the dirt as she walked, carrying a tray mounded with
bits of fried beef.
“Go up and change,” Mama said, holding Jaja and me around the
shoulders. “Your aunty and cousins will be here soon.”

Upstairs, Sisi had set eight places at the dining table, with wide plates
the color of caramel and matching napkins ironed into crisp triangles.
Aunty Ifeoma and her children arrived while I was still changing out of my
church clothes. I heard her loud laughter, and it echoed and went on for a
while. I did not realize it was my cousins’ laughter, the sound reflecting
their mother’s, until I went out to the living room. Mama, who was still in
the pink, heavily sequined wrapper she had worn to church, sat next to
Aunty Ifeoma on a couch. Jaja was talking to Amaka and Obiora near the
étagère. I went over to join them, starting to pace my breathing so that I
would not stutter.
“That’s a stereo, isn’t it? Why don’t you play some music? Or are you
bored with the stereo, too?” Amaka asked, her placid eyes darting from Jaja
to me.
“Yes, it’s a stereo,” Jaja said. He did not say that we never played it,
that we never even thought to, that all we listened to was the news on
Papa’s radio during family time. Amaka went over and pulled out the LP
drawer. Obiora joined her.
“No wonder you don’t play the stereo, everything in here is so dull!”
she said.
“They’re not that dull,” Obiora said, looking through the LPs. He had a
habit of pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. Finally he put
one on, an Irish church choir singing “O Come All Ye Faithful.” He seemed
fascinated by the stereo player and, as the song played, stood watching it as
if he would learn the secrets of its chrome entrails by staring hard at it.
Chima came into the room. “The toilet here is so nice, Mommy. It has
big mirrors and creams in glass bottles.”
“I hope you didn’t break anything,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“I didn’t,” Chima said. “Can we put the TV on?”
“No,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Your Uncle Eugene is coming up soon so
we can have lunch.”
Sisi came into the room, smelling of food and spices, to tell Mama that
the Igwe had arrived, that Papa wanted us all to come down and greet him.
Mama rose, tightened her wrapper, and then waited for Aunty Ifeoma to
lead the way.
“I thought the Igwe was supposed to stay at his palace and receive
guests. I didn’t know he visits people’s homes,” Amaka said, as we went

downstairs. “I guess that’s because your father is a Big Man.”
I wished she had said “Uncle Eugene” instead of “your father.” She did
not even look at me as she spoke. I felt, looking at her, that I was helplessly
watching precious flaxen sand slip away between my fingers.
The Igwe’s palace was a few minutes from our house. We had visited
him once, some years back. We never visited him again, though, because
Papa said that although the Igwe had converted, he still let his pagan
relatives carry out sacrifices in his palace. Mama had greeted him the
traditional way that women were supposed to, bending low and offering
him her back so that he would pat it with his fan made of the soft, straw-
colored tail of an animal. Back home that night, Papa told Mama that it was
sinful. You did not bow to another human being. It was an ungodly
tradition, bowing to an Igwe. So, a few days later, when we went to see the
bishop at Awka, I did not kneel to kiss his ring. I wanted to make Papa
proud. But Papa yanked my ear in the car and said I did not have the spirit
of discernment: the bishop was a man of God; the Igwe was merely a
traditional ruler.
“Good afternoon, sir, nno,” I said to the Igwe when I got downstairs.
The hairs that peeked out of his wide nose quivered as he smiled at me and
said, “Our daughter, kedu?”
One of the smaller sitting rooms had been cleared for him and his wife
and four assistants, one of whom was fanning him with a gilded fan
although the air conditioner was on. Another was fanning his wife, a
woman with yellow skin and rows and rows of jewelry hanging round her
neck, gold pendants and beads and corals. The scarf wound around her head
flared out in front, wide like a banana leaf and so high that I imagined the
person sitting behind her in church having to stand up to see the altar.
I watched Aunty Ifeoma sink to one knee and say, “Igwe!” in the
raised voice of a respectful salute, watched him pat her back. The gold
sequins that covered his tunic glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Amaka
bowed deeply before him. Mama, Jaja, and Obiora shook hands with him,
respectfully enclosing his hand in both of theirs. I stood at the door a little
longer, to make sure that Papa saw that I did not go close enough to the
Igwe to bow to him.
Back upstairs, Mama and Aunty Ifeoma went into Mama’s room.
Chima and Obiora stretched out on the rug, playing with the whot cards that

Obiora had discovered in his pockets. Amaka wanted to see a book Jaja told
her he had brought, and they went into Jaja’s room. I sat on the sofa,
watching my cousins play with the cards. I did not understand the game, nor
why at intervals one of them yelled “Donkey!” amid laughter. The stereo
had stopped. I got up and went into the hallway, standing by Mama’s
bedroom door. I wanted to go in and sit with Mama and Aunty Ifeoma, but
instead I just stood still, listening. Mama was whispering; I could barely
make out the words “there are many full gas cylinders lying around in the
factory.” She was trying to persuade Aunty Ifeoma to ask Papa for them.
Aunty Ifeoma was whispering, too, but I heard her well. Her whisper
was like her—tall, exuberant, fearless, loud, larger than life. “Have you
forgotten that Eugene offered to buy me a car, even before Ifediora died?
But first he wanted us to join the Knights of St. John. He wanted us to send
Amaka to convent school. He even wanted me to stop wearing makeup! I
want a new car, nwunye m, and I want to use my gas cooker again and I
want a new freezer and I want money so that I will not have to unravel the
seams of Chima’s trousers when he outgrows them. But I will not ask my
brother to bend over so that I can lick his buttocks to get these things.”
“Ifeoma, if you…” Mama’s soft voice trailed off again.
“You know why Eugene did not get along with Ifediora?” Aunty
Ifeoma’s whisper was back, fiercer, louder. “Because Ifediora told him to
his face what he felt. Ifediora was not afraid to tell the truth. But you know
Eugene quarrels with the truths that he does not like. Our father is dying, do
you hear me? Dying. He is an old man, how much longer does he have,
gbo? Yet Eugene will not let him into this house, will not even greet him. O
joka! Eugene has to stop doing God’s job. God is big enough to do his own
job. If God will judge our father for choosing to follow the way of our
ancestors, then let God do the judging, not Eugene.”
I heard the word umunna. Aunty Ifeoma laughed her throaty laugh
before she replied. “You know that the members of our umunna, in fact
everybody in Abba, will tell Eugene only what he wants to hear. Do our
people not have sense? Will you pinch the finger of the hand that feeds
you?”
I did not hear Amaka come out of Jaja’s room and walk toward me,
perhaps because the hallway was so wide, until she said, so close that her
breath fanned my neck, “What are you doing?”

I jumped. “Nothing.”
She was looking at me oddly, right in the eye. “Your father has come
upstairs for lunch,” she finally said.
Papa watched as we all sat down at the table, and then started grace. It
was a little longer than usual, more than twenty minutes, and when he
finally said, “Through Christ our Lord,” Aunty Ifeoma raised her voice so
that her “Amen” stood out from the rest of ours.
“Did you want the rice to get cold, Eugene?” she muttered. Papa
continued to unfold his napkin, as though he had not heard her.
The sounds of forks meeting plates, of serving spoons meeting platters,
filled the dining room. Sisi had drawn the curtains and turned the chandelier
on, even though it was afternoon. The yellow light made Obiora’s eyes
seem a deeper golden, like extra-sweet honey. The air conditioner was on,
but I was hot.
Amaka piled almost everything on her dish—jollof rice, fufu and two
different soups, fried chicken and beef, salad and cream—like someone
who would not have an opportunity to eat again soon. Strips of lettuce
reached across from the edge of her plate to touch the dining table.
“Do you always eat rice with a fork and a knife and napkins?” she
asked, turning to watch me.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on my jollof rice. I wished Amaka would
keep her voice low. I was not used to this kind of conversation at table.
“Eugene, you must let the children come and visit us in Nsukka,”
Aunty Ifeoma said. “We don’t have a mansion, but at least they can get to
know their cousins.”
“The children don’t like to be away from home,” Papa said.
“That’s because they have never been away from home. I’m sure they
will like to see Nsukka. Jaja and Kambili, won’t you?”
I mumbled to my plate, then started to cough as if real, sensible words
would have come out of my mouth but for the coughing.
“If Papa says it is all right,” Jaja said. Papa smiled at Jaja, and I wished
I had said that.
“Maybe the next time they are on holiday,” Papa said, firmly. He
expected Aunty Ifeoma to let it go.
“Eugene, biko, let the children come and spend one week with us.
They do not resume school until late January. Let your driver bring them to

Nsukka.”
“Ngwanu, we will see,” Papa said. He spoke Igbo for the first time, his
brows almost meeting in a quick frown.
“Ifeoma was saying that they just called off a strike,” Mama said.
“Are things getting any better in Nsukka?” Papa asked, reverting to
English. “The university is living on past glory nowadays.”
Aunty Ifeoma narrowed her eyes. “Have you ever picked up the phone
and called me to ask me that question, eh, Eugene? Will your hands wither
away if you pick up the phone one day and call your sister, gbo?” Her Igbo
words had a teasing lilt, but the steeliness in her tone created a knot in my
throat.
“I did call you, Ifeoma.”
“How long ago was that? I ask you—how long ago was that?” Aunty
Ifeoma put her fork down. She sat still for a long, tense moment, as still as
Papa was, as still as we all were. Finally Mama cleared her throat and asked
Papa if the bottle of juice was empty.
“Yes,” Papa said. “Ask that girl to bring more bottled juice.”
Mama got up to call Sisi. The long bottles Sisi brought looked as
though they contained an elegant liquid, the way they tapered like a slender,
shapely woman. Papa poured for everyone and proposed a toast. “To the
spirit of Christmas and to the glory of God.”
We repeated him in a chorus. Obiora’s sentence had a lift at the end,
and it came out sounding like a question: “to the glory of God?”
“And to us, and to the spirit of family,” Aunty Ifeoma added, before
she drank.
“Does your factory make this, Uncle Eugene?” Amaka asked,
squinting to see what was written on the bottles.
“Yes,” Papa answered.
“It’s a little too sweet. It would be nicer if you reduced the sugar in it.”
Amaka’s tone was as polite and normal as everyday conversation with an
older person. I was not sure if Papa nodded or if his head simply moved as
he chewed. Another knot formed in my throat, and I could not get a
mouthful of rice down. I knocked my glass over as I reached for it, and the
blood-colored juice crept over the white lace tablecloth. Mama hastily
placed a napkin on the spot, and when she raised the reddened napkin, I
remembered her blood on the stairs.

“Did you hear about Aokpe, Uncle Eugene?” Amaka asked. “It’s a tiny
village in Benue. The Blessed Virgin is appearing there.”
I wondered how Amaka did it, how she opened her mouth and had
words flow easily out.
Papa spent some time chewing and swallowing before he said, “Yes, I
heard about it.”
“I plan to go on pilgrimage there with the children,” Aunty Ifeoma
said. “Maybe Kambili and Jaja can go with us.”
Amaka looked up quickly, surprised. She started to say something and
then stopped.
“Well, the church has not verified the authenticity of the apparitions,”
Papa said, staring thoughtfully at his plate.
“You know we will all be dead before the church officially speaks
about Aokpe,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Even if the church says it is not
authentic, what matters is why we go, and it is from faith.”
Papa looked unexpectedly pleased with what Aunty Ifeoma had said.
He nodded slowly. “When do you plan to go?”
“Sometime in January, before the children resume school.”
“Okay. I will call you when we get back to Enugu to arrange for Jaja
and Kambili to go for a day or two.”
“A week, Eugene, they will stay a week. I do not have monsters that
eat human heads in my house!” Aunty Ifeoma laughed, and her children
reproduced the throaty sounds, their teeth flashing like the insides of a
cracked palm kernel. Only Amaka did not laugh.

THE NEXT DAY was a Sunday. It did not seem like a Sunday, maybe
because we had just gone to church on Christmas day. Mama came into my
room and shook me gently, hugged me, and I smelled her mint-scented
deodorant.
“Did you sleep well? We are going to the earlier Mass today because
your father has a meeting right afterward. Kunie, get into the bathroom, it’s
past seven.”
I yawned and sat up. There was a red stain on my bed, wide as an open
notebook.
“Your period,” Mama said. “Did you bring pads?”

“Yes.”
I barely let the water run over my body before I came out of the
shower, so that I would not delay. I picked out a blue-and-white dress and
tied a blue scarf around my head. I knotted it twice at the back of my neck
and then tucked the ends of my cornrows underneath. Once, Papa had
hugged me proudly, kissed my forehead, because Father Benedict told him
that my hair was always properly covered for Mass, that I was not like the
other young girls in church who let some of their hair show, as if they did
not know that exposing your hair in church was ungodly.
Jaja and Mama were dressed and waiting in the living room upstairs
when I came out. Cramps racked my belly. I imagined someone with
buckteeth rhythmically biting deep into my stomach walls and letting go.
“Do you have Panadol, Mama?”
“Cramps abia?”
“Yes. My stomach is so empty, too.”
Mama looked at the wall clock, a gift from a charity Papa donated to,
oval shaped and embossed with his name in gold lettering. It was 7:37. The
Eucharist fast mandated that the faithful not eat solid food an hour before
Mass. We never broke the Eucharistic fast; the table was set for breakfast
with teacups and cereal bowls side by side, but we would not eat until we
came home.
“Eat a little corn flakes, quickly,” Mama said, almost in a whisper.
“You need something in your stomach to hold the Panadol.”
Jaja poured the cereal from the carton on the table, scooped in
powdered milk and sugar with a teaspoon, and added water. The glass bowl
was transparent, and I could see the chalky clumps the milk made with the
water at the bottom of the bowl.
“Papa is with visitors, we will hear him as he comes up,” he said.
I started to wolf the cereal down, standing. Mama gave me the Panadol
tablets, still in the silver-colored foil, which crinkled as I opened it. Jaja had
not put much cereal in the bowl, and I was almost done eating it when the
door opened and Papa came in.
Papa’s white shirt, with its perfectly tailored lines, did little to
minimize the mound of flesh that was his stomach. While he stared at the
glass bowl of corn flakes in my hand, I looked down at the few flaccid

flakes floating among the clumps of milk and wondered how he had
climbed the stairs so soundlessly.
“What are you doing, Kambili?”
I swallowed hard. “I…I…”
“You are eating ten minutes before Mass? Ten minutes before Mass?”
“Her period started and she has cramps—” Mama said.
Jaja cut her short. “I told her to eat corn flakes before she took
Panadol, Papa. I made it for her.”
“Has the devil asked you all to go on errands for him?” The Igbo
words burst out of Papa’s mouth. “Has the devil built a tent in my house?”
He turned to Mama. “You sit there and watch her desecrate the Eucharistic
fast, maka nnidi?”
He unbuckled his belt slowly. It was a heavy belt made of layers of
brown leather with a sedate leather-covered buckle. It landed on Jaja first,
across his shoulder. Then Mama raised her hands as it landed on her upper
arm, which was covered by the puffy sequined sleeve of her church blouse.
I put the bowl down just as the belt landed on my back. Sometimes I
watched the Fulani nomads, white jellabas flapping against their legs in the
wind, making clucking sounds as they herded their cows across the roads in
Enugu with a switch, each smack of the switch swift and precise. Papa was
like a Fulani nomad—although he did not have their spare, tall body—as he
swung his belt at Mama, Jaja, and me, muttering that the devil would not
win. We did not move more than two steps away from the leather belt that
swished through the air.
Then the belt stopped, and Papa stared at the leather in his hand. His
face crumpled; his eyelids sagged. “Why do you walk into sin?” he asked.
“Why do you like sin?”
Mama took the belt from him and laid it on the table.
Papa crushed Jaja and me to his body. “Did the belt hurt you? Did it
break your skin?” he asked, examining our faces. I felt a throbbing on my
back, but I said no, that I was not hurt. It was the way Papa shook his head
when he talked about liking sin, as if something weighed him down,
something he could not throw off.
We went to the later Mass. But first we changed our clothes, even
Papa, and washed our faces.

WE LEFT ABBA right after New Year’s. The wives of the umunna took
the leftover food, even the cooked rice and beans that Mama said were
spoiled, and they knelt in the backyard dirt to thank Papa and Mama. The
gate man waved with both hands over his head as we drove off. His name
was Haruna, he had told Jaja and me a few days before, and in his Hausa-
accented English that reversed P and F, he told us that our pather was the
best Big Man he had ever seen, the best emfloyer he had ever had. Did we
know our pather faid his children’s school pees? Did we know our pather
had helfed his wipe get the messenger job at the Local Government oppice?
We were lucky to have such a pather.
Papa started the rosary as we drove onto the expressway. We had
driven for less than half an hour when we came to a checkpoint; there was a
traffic jam, and policemen, many more than was usual, were waving their
guns and diverting traffic. We didn’t see the cars involved in the accident
until we were in the thick of the jam. One car had stopped at the checkpoint,
and another had rammed into it from behind. The second car was crushed to
half of its size. A bloodied corpse, a man in blue jeans, lay on the roadside.
“May his soul rest in peace,” Papa said, crossing himself.
“Look away,” Mama said, turning back to us.
But Jaja and I were already looking at the corpse. Papa was talking
about the policemen, about how they set up the roadblocks in wooded parts,
even if it was dangerous for motorists, just so that they could use the bushes
to hide the money they extorted from travelers. But I was not really
listening to Papa; I was thinking of the man in the blue jeans, the dead man.
I was wondering where he was going and what he had planned to do there.

PAPA CALLED AUNTY IFEOMA two days later. Perhaps he would not have
called her if we had not gone to confession that day. And perhaps then we
would never have gone to Nsukka and everything would have remained the
same.
It was the feast of the Epiphany, a holy day of obligation, so Papa did
not go to work. We went to morning Mass, and although we did not usually
visit Father Benedict on holy days of obligation, we went to his house
afterward. Papa wanted Father Benedict to hear our confession. We had not
gone in Abba because Papa did not like to make his confession in Igbo, and

besides, Papa said that the parish priest in Abba was not spiritual enough.
That was the problem with our people, Papa told us, our priorities were
wrong; we cared too much about huge church buildings and mighty statues.
You would never see white people doing that.
In Father Benedict’s house, Mama and Jaja and I sat in the living
room, reading the newspapers and magazines that were spread on the low,
coffin-like table as if they were for sale while Papa talked with Father
Benedict in the adjoining study room. Papa emerged and asked us to
prepare for confession; he would go first. Even though Papa shut the door
firmly, I heard his voice, words flowing into each other in an endless
rumble like a revving car engine. Mama went next, and the door remained
open a crack, but I could not hear her. Jaja took the shortest time. When he
came out, still crossing himself as if he had been in too much of a hurry to
leave the room, I asked him with my eyes if he had remembered the lie to
Papa-Nnukwu, and he nodded. I went into the room, barely big enough to
hold a desk and two chairs, and pushed the door to make sure it shut
properly.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said, sitting on the very edge of
the chair. I longed for a confessional, for the safety of the wood cubicle and
the green curtain that separated priest and penitent. I wished I could kneel,
and then I wished I could shield my face with a file from Father Benedict’s
desk. Face-to-face confessions made me think of Judgment Day come early,
made me feel unprepared.
“Yes, Kambili,” Father Benedict said. He sat upright on his chair,
fingering the purple stole across his shoulders.
“It has been three weeks since my last confession,” I said. I was staring
fixedly at the wall, right below the framed photo of the Pope, which had a
signature scrawled underneath. “Here are my sins. I lied two times. I broke
the Eucharistic fast once. I lost concentration during the rosary three times.
For all I have said and for all I have forgotten to say, I beg pardon from
your hands and the hands of God.”
Father Benedict shifted on his chair. “Go on, then. You know it’s a sin
against the Holy Spirit to willfully keep something back at confession.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Go on, then.”

I looked away from the wall to glance at him. His eyes were the same
green shade of a snake I had seen once, slithering across the yard near the
hibiscus bushes. The gardener had said it was a harmless garden snake.
“Kambili, you must confess all your sins.”
“Yes, Father. I have.”
“It is wrong to hide from the Lord. I will give you a moment to think.”
I nodded and stared back at the wall. Was there something I had done
that Father Benedict knew about that I did not know? Had Papa told him
something?
“I spent more than fifteen minutes at my grandfather’s house,” I said
finally. “My grandfather is a pagan.”
“Did you eat any of the native foods sacrificed to idols?”
“No, Father.”
“Did you participate in any pagan rituals?”
“No, Father.” I paused. “But we looked at mmuo. Masquerades.”
“Did you enjoy that?”
I looked up at the photo on the wall and wondered if the Pope himself
had actually signed it. “Yes, Father.”
“You understand that it is wrong to take joy in pagan rituals, because it
breaks the first commandment. Pagan rituals are misinformed superstition,
and they are the gateway to Hell. Do you understand that, then?”
“Yes, Father.”
“For your penance say the Our Father ten times, Hail Mary six times,
and the Apostles’ Creed once. And you must make a conscious effort to
convert everyone who enjoys the ways of heathens.”
“Yes, Father.”
“All right, then, make the Act of Contrition.”
While I recited the Act of Contrition, Father Benedict murmured
blessings and made the sign of the cross.
Papa and Mama were still sitting on the sofa, heads bent, when I came
out. I sat next to Jaja, bent my head, and made my penance.
As we drove home, Papa talked loudly, above the “Ave Maria.” “I am
spotless now, we are all spotless. If God calls us right now, we are going
straight to Heaven. Straight to Heaven. We will not require the cleansing of
Purgatory.” He was smiling, his eyes bright, his hand gently drumming the

steering wheel. And he was still smiling when he called Aunty Ifeoma soon
after we got back home, before he had his tea.
“I discussed it with Father Benedict, and he says the children can go
on pilgrimage to Aokpe but you must make it clear that what is happening
there has not been verified by the church.” A pause. “My driver, Kevin, will
take them.” A pause. “Tomorrow is too soon. The day after.” A long pause.
“Oh, all right. God bless you and the children. Bye.”
Papa put the phone down and turned to us. “You will leave tomorrow,
so go up and pack your things. Pack for five days.”
“Yes, Papa,” Jaja and I said together.
“Maybe, anam asi,” Mama said, “they should not visit Ifeoma’s house
empty-handed.”
Papa stared at her as if surprised that she had spoken. “We will put
some food in the car, of course, yams and rice,” he said.
“Ifeoma mentioned that gas cylinders were scarce in Nsukka.”
“Gas cylinders?”
“Yes, cooking gas. She said she uses her old kerosene stove now. You
remember the story of adulterated kerosene that was blowing up stoves and
killing people? I thought maybe you might send one or two gas cylinders to
her from the factory.”
“Is that what you and Ifeoma planned?”
“Kpa, I am just making a suggestion. It is up to you to decide.”
Papa examined Mama’s face for a while. “Okay,” he said. He turned
back to Jaja and me. “Go up and pack your things. You can take twenty
minutes from your study time.”
We climbed the curving stairs slowly. I wondered if Jaja’s stomach
rumbled at the lower part like mine did. It was the first time in our lives that
we would be sleeping outside home without Papa.
“Do you want to go to Nsukka?” I asked when we got to the landing.
“Yes,” he said, and his eyes said that he knew I did, too. And I could
not find the words in our eye language to tell him how my throat tightened
at the thought of five days without Papa’s voice, without his footsteps on
the stairs.

THE NEXT MORNING, Kevin brought two full gas cylinders from Papa’s
factory and put them into the boot of the Volvo alongside bags of rice and
beans, a few yams, bunches of green plantains, and pineapples. Jaja and I
stood by the hibiscus bushes, waiting. The gardener was clipping away at
the bougainvillea, taming the flowers that defiantly stuck out of the leveled
top. He had raked underneath the frangipani trees, and dead leaves and pink
flowers lay in piles, ready for the wheelbarrow.
“Here are your schedules for the week you will stay in Nsukka,” Papa
said. The sheet of paper he thrust into my hand was similar to the schedule
pasted above my study desk upstairs, except he had penciled in two hours
of “time with your cousins” each day.
“The only day you are excused from that schedule is when you go to
Aokpe with your aunt,” Papa said. When he hugged Jaja and then me, his
hands were shaking. “I have never been without you two for more than a
day.”
I did not know what to say, but Jaja nodded and said, “We will see you
in a week.”
“Kevin, drive carefully. Do you understand?” Papa asked, as we got in
the car.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get petrol on your way back, at Ninth Mile, and don’t forget to bring
me the receipt.”
“Yes, sir.”
Papa asked us to get out of the car. He hugged us both again, smoothed
the back of our necks, and asked us not to forget to say the full fifteen
decades of the rosary during the drive. Mama hugged us one more time
before we got back in the car.
“Papa is still waving,” Jaja said, as Kevin nosed the car up the
driveway. He was looking in the mirror above his head.
“He’s crying,” I said.
“The gardener is waving, too,” Jaja said, and I wondered if he had
really not heard me. I pulled my rosary from my pocket, kissed the crucifix,
and started the prayer.

I looked out the window as we drove, counting the blackened
hulks of cars on the roadside, some left for so long they were covered with
reddish rust. I wondered about the people who had been inside, how they
had felt just before the accident, before the smashing glass and crunched
metal and leaping flames. I did not concentrate on any of the glorious
Mysteries, and knew that Jaja did not, either, because he kept forgetting
when it was his turn to start a decade of the rosary. About forty minutes into
the drive, I saw a sign on the roadside that read UNIVERSITY OF NIGERIA,
NSUKKA, and I asked Kevin if we were almost there.
“No,” he said. “A little while longer.”
Near the town of Opi—the dust-covered church and school signs read
OPI—we came to a police checkpoint. Old tires and nail-studded logs were
strewn across most of the road, leaving only a narrow space. A policeman
flagged us down as we approached. Kevin groaned. Then as he slowed, he
reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a ten-naira note and
flung it out of the window, toward the policeman. The policeman gave a
mock salute, smiled, and waved us through. Kevin would not have done
that if Papa had been in the car. When policemen or soldiers stopped Papa,
he spent so long showing them all his car papers, letting them search his
car, anything but bribe them to let him pass. We cannot be part of what we
fight, he often told us.
“We’re entering the town of Nsukka,” Kevin said, a few minutes later.
We were driving past the market. The crowded roadside stores with their
sparse shelves of goods threatened to spill over onto a thin strip of road
already full of doubleparked cars, hawkers with trays balanced on their
heads, motorcyclists, boys pushing wheelbarrows full of yams, women
holding baskets, beggars looking up from their mats and waving. Kevin
drove slowly now; potholes suddenly materialized in the middle of the road,
and he followed the swerving motion of the car ahead of us. When we came
to a point just past the market where the road had narrowed, eaten away by
erosion at the sides, he stopped for a while to let other cars go by.
“We’re at the university,” he said, finally.
A wide arch towered over us, bearing the words University of Nigeria
Nsukka in black, cut-out metal. The gates underneath the arch were flung

wide open and manned by security men in dark brown uniforms and
matching berets. Kevin stopped and rolled down the windows.
“Good afternoon. Please, how can we get to Marguerite Cartwright
Avenue?” he asked.
The security man closest to us, his facial skin creased like a rumpled
dress, asked, “How are you?” before he told Kevin that Marguerite
Cartwright Avenue was very close; we had only to keep straight and then
make a right at the first junction and an almost immediate left. Kevin
thanked him and we drove off. A lawn the color of spinach splashed across
the side of the road. I turned to stare at the statue in the middle of the lawn,
a black lion standing on its hind legs, tail curved upward, chest puffed out. I
didn’t realize Jaja was looking, too, until he read aloud the words inscribed
on the pedestal: “‘To restore the dignity of man.’” Then, as though I could
not tell, he added, “It’s the university’s motto.”
Marguerite Cartwright Avenue was bordered by tall gmelina trees. I
imagined the trees bending during a rainy-season thunderstorm, reaching
across to touch each other and turning the avenue into a dark tunnel. The
duplexes with gravelcovered driveways and BEWARE OF DOGS signs in the
front yard soon gave way to bungalows with driveways the length of two
cars and then blocks of flats with wide stretches of space in front of them
instead of driveways. Kevin drove slowly, muttering Aunty Ifeoma’s house
number as if that would make us find it sooner. It was in the fourth block
we came to, a tall, bland building with peeling blue paint and with
television aerials sticking out from the verandahs. It had three flats on each
side, and Aunty Ifeoma’s was on the ground floor on the left. In front was a
circular burst of bright colors—a garden—fenced around with barbed wire.
Roses and hibiscuses and lilies and ixora and croton grew side by side like a
handpainted wreath. Aunty Ifeoma emerged from the flat in a pair of shorts,
rubbing her hands over the front of her T-shirt. The skin at her knees was
very dark.
“Jaja! Kambili!” She barely waited for us to climb out of the car before
hugging us, squeezing us close together so we both fit in the stretch of her
arms.
“Good afternoon, Mah,” Kevin greeted before he went around to open
the boot.

“Ah! Ah!” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Does Eugene think we are starving?
Even a bag of rice?”
Kevin smiled. “Oga said it is to greet you, Mah.”
“Hei!” Aunty yelped, looking into the boot. “Gas cylinders? Oh,
nwunye m should not have bothered herself so much.” Then Aunty Ifeoma
did a little dance, moving her arms in rowing motions, throwing each leg in
front of her and stamping down hard.
Kevin stood by and rubbed his hands together in pleasure, as if he had
orchestrated the big surprise. He hoisted a gas cylinder out of the boot, and
Jaja helped him carry it into the flat.
“Your cousins will be back soon, they went out to say happy birthday
to Father Amadi, he’s our friend and he works at our chaplaincy. I have
been cooking, I even killed a chicken for you two!” Aunty Ifeoma laughed
and pulled me to her. She smelled of nutmeg.
“Where do we place these, Mah?” Kevin asked.
“Just leave the things on the verandah. Amaka and Obiora will put
them away later.”
Aunty Ifeoma still held on to me as we entered the living room. I
noticed the ceiling first, how low it was. I felt I could reach out and touch it;
it was so unlike home, where the high ceilings gave our rooms an airy
stillness. The pungent fumes of kerosene smoke mixed with the aroma of
curry and nutmeg from the kitchen.
“Let me see if my jollof rice is burning!” Aunty Ifeoma dashed into the
kitchen.
I sat down on the brown sofa. The seams of the cushions were frayed
and slipping apart. It was the only sofa in the living room; next to it were
cane chairs, softened with brown cushions. The center table was cane, too,
supporting an oriental vase with pictures of kimono-clad dancing women.
Three long-stemmed roses, so piercingly red I wondered if they were
plastic, were in the vase.
“Nne, don’t behave like a guest. Come in, come in,” Aunty Ifeoma
said, coming out from the kitchen.
I followed her down a short hallway lined with crammed bookshelves.
The gray wood looked as though it would collapse if just one more book
were added. Each book looked clean; they were all either read often or
dusted often.

“This is my room. I sleep here with Chima,” Aunty Ifeoma said,
opening the first door. Cartons and bags of rice were stacked against the
wall near the door. A tray held giant tins of dried milk and Bournvita, near a
study table with a reading lamp, bottles of medicine, books. At another
corner, suitcases were piled on top of one another. Aunty Ifeoma led the
way to another room, with two beds along one wall. They were pushed
together to create space for more than two people. Two dressers, a mirror,
and a study desk and chair managed to fit in also. I wondered where Jaja
and I would be sleeping, and as if Aunty Ifeoma had read my thoughts, she
said, “You and Amaka will sleep here, nne. Obiora sleeps in the living
room, so Jaja will stay with him.”
I heard Kevin and Jaja come into the flat.
“We have finished bringing the things in, Mah. I’m leaving now,”
Kevin said. He spoke from the living room, but the flat was so small he did
not have to raise his voice.
“Tell Eugene I said thank you. Tell him we are well. Drive carefully.”
“Yes, Mah.”
I watched Kevin leave, and suddenly my chest felt tight. I wanted to
run after him, to tell him to wait while I got my bag and got back in the car.
“Nne, Jaja, come and join me in the kitchen until your cousins come
back.” Aunty Ifeoma sounded so casual, as if it were completely normal to
have us visit, as if we had visited so many times in the past. Jaja led the way
into the kitchen and sat down on a low wooden stool. I stood by the door
because there was hardly enough room in the kitchen not to get in her way,
as she drained rice at the sink, checked on the cooking meat, blended
tomatoes in a mortar. The light blue kitchen tiles were worn and chipped at
the corners, but they looked scrubbed clean, as did the pots, whose lids did
not fit, one side slipping crookedly into the pot. The kerosene stove was on
a wooden table by the window. The walls near the window and the
threadbare curtains had turned black-gray from the kerosene smoke. Aunty
Ifeoma chattered as she put the rice back on the stove and chopped two
purple onions, her stream of sentences punctuated by her cackling laughter.
She seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time because she reached
up often to brush away the onion tears with the back of her hand.
Her children came in a few minutes later. They looked different,
maybe because I was seeing them for the first time in their own home rather

than in Abba, where they were visitors in Papa-Nnukwu’s house. Obiora
took off a dark pair of sunglasses and slipped them in the pockets of his
shorts as they came in. He laughed when he saw me.
“Jaja and Kambili are here!” Chima piped.
We all hugged in greeting, brief clasps of our bodies. Amaka barely let
her sides meet mine before she backed away. She was wearing lipstick, a
different shade that was more red than brown, and her dress was molded to
her lean body.
“How was the drive down here?” she asked, looking at Jaja.
“Fine,” Jaja said. “I thought it would be longer than it was.”
“Oh, Enugu really isn’t that far from here,” Amaka said.
“We still haven’t bought the soft drinks, Mom,” Obiora said.
“Did I not tell you to buy them before you left, gbo?” Aunty Ifeoma
slid the onion slices into hot oil and stepped back.
“I’ll go now. Jaja, do you want to come with me? We’re just going to a
kiosk in the next compound.”
“Don’t forget to take empty bottles,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
I watched Jaja leave with Obiora. I could not see his face, could not
tell if he felt as bewildered as I did.
“Let me go and change, Mom, and I’ll fry the plantains,” Amaka said,
turning to leave.
“Nne, go with your cousin,” Aunty Ifeoma said to me.
I followed Amaka to her room, placing one frightened foot after the
next. The cement floors were rough, did not let my feet glide over them the
way the smooth marble floors back home did. Amaka took her earrings off,
placed them on top of the dresser, and looked at herself in the full-length
mirror. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her, wondering if she knew
that I had followed her into the room.
“I’m sure you think Nsukka is uncivilized compared to Enugu,” she
said, still looking in the mirror. “I told Mom to stop forcing you both to
come.”
“I…we…wanted to come.”
Amaka smiled into the mirror, a thin, patronizing smile that seemed to
say I should not have bothered lying to her. “There’s no happening place in
Nsukka, in case you haven’t realized that already. Nsukka has no Genesis or
Nike Lake.”

“What?”
“Genesis and Nike Lake, the happening places in Enugu. You go there
all the time, don’t you?”
“No.”
Amaka gave me an odd look. “But you go once in a while?”
“I…yes.” I had never been to the restaurant Genesis and had only been
to the hotel Nike Lake when Papa’s business partner had a wedding
reception there. We had stayed only long enough for Papa to take pictures
with the couple and give them a present.
Amaka picked up a comb and ran it through the ends of her short hair.
Then she turned to me and asked, “Why do you lower your voice?”
“What?”
“You lower your voice when you speak. You talk in whispers.”
“Oh.” I said, my eyes focused on the desk, which was full of things—
books, a cracked mirror, felt-tipped pens.
Amaka put the comb down and pulled her dress over her head. In her
white lacy bra and light blue underwear, she looked like a Hausa goat:
brown, long and lean. I quickly averted my gaze. I had never seen anyone
undress; it was sinful to look upon another person’s nakedness.
“I’m sure this is nothing close to the sound system in your room in
Enugu,” Amaka said. She pointed at the small cassette player at the foot of
the dresser. I wanted to tell her that I did not have any kind of music system
in my room back home, but I was not sure she would be pleased to hear
that, just as she would not be pleased to hear it if I did have one.
She turned the cassette player on, nodding to the polyphonic beat of
drums. “I listen mostly to indigenous musicians. They’re culturally
conscious; they have something real to say. Fela and Osadebe and Onyeka
are my favorites. Oh, I’m sure you probably don’t know who they are, I’m
sure you’re into American pop like other teenagers.” She said “teenagers”
as if she were not one, as if teenagers were a brand of people who, by not
listening to culturally conscious music, were a step beneath her. And she
said “culturally conscious” in the proud way that people say a word they
never knew they would learn until they do.
I sat still on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, wanting to tell Amaka
that I did not own a cassette player, that I could hardly tell any kinds of pop
music apart.

“Did you paint this?” I asked, instead. The watercolor painting of a
woman with a child was much like a copy of the Virgin and Child oil
painting that hung in Papa’s bedroom, except the woman and child in
Amaka’s painting were dark-skinned.
“Yes, I paint sometimes.”
“It’s nice.” I wished that I had known that my cousin painted realistic
watercolors. I wished that she would not keep looking at me as if I were a
strange laboratory animal to be explained and catalogued.
“Did something hold you girls in there?” Aunty Ifeoma called from the
kitchen.
I followed Amaka back to the kitchen and watched her slice and fry
the plantains. Jaja soon came back with the boys, the bottles of soft drinks
in a black plastic bag. Aunty Ifeoma asked Obiora to set the table. “Today
we’ll treat Kambili and Jaja as guests, but from tomorrow they will be
family and join in the work,” she said.
The dining table was made of wood that cracked in dry weather. The
outermost layer was shedding, like a molting cricket, brown slices curling
up from the surface. The dining chairs were mismatched. Four were made
of plain wood, the kind of chairs in my classroom, and the other two were
black and padded. Jaja and I sat side by side. Aunty Ifeoma said the grace,
and after my cousins said “Amen,” I still had my eyes closed.
“Nne, we have finished praying. We do not say Mass in the name of
grace like your father does,” Aunty Ifeoma said with a chuckle.
I opened my eyes, just in time to catch Amaka watching me.
“I hope Kambili and Jaja come every day so we can eat like this.
Chicken and soft drinks!” Obiora pushed at his glasses as he spoke.
“Mommy! I want the chicken leg,” Chima said.
“I think these people have started to put less Coke in the bottles,”
Amaka said, holding her Coke bottle back to examine it.
I looked down at the jollof rice, fried plantains, and half of a drumstick
on my plate and tried to concentrate, tried to get the food down. The plates,
too, were mismatched. Chima and Obiora used plastic ones while the rest of
us had plain glass plates, bereft of dainty flowers or silver lines. Laughter
floated over my head. Words spurted from everyone, often not seeking and
not getting any response. We always spoke with a purpose back home,

especially at the table, but my cousins seemed to simply speak and speak
and speak.
“Mom, biko, give me the neck,” Amaka said.
“Didn’t you talk me out of the neck the last time, gbo?” Aunty Ifeoma
asked, and then she picked up the chicken neck on her plate and reached
across to place it on Amaka’s plate.
“When was the last time we ate chicken?” Obiora asked.
“Stop chewing like a goat, Obiora!” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“Goats chew differently when they ruminate and when they eat, Mom.
Which do you mean?”
I looked up to watch Obiora chewing.
“Kambili, is something wrong with the food?” Aunty Ifeoma asked,
startling me. I had felt as if I were not there, that I was just observing a table
where you could say anything at any time to anyone, where the air was free
for you to breathe as you wished.
“I like the rice, Aunty, thank you.”
“If you like the rice, eat the rice,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“Maybe it is not as good as the fancy rice she eats at home,” Amaka
said.
“Amaka, leave your cousin alone,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
I did not say anything else until lunch was over, but I listened to every
word spoken, followed every cackle of laughter and line of banter. Mostly,
my cousins did the talking and Aunty Ifeoma sat back and watched them,
eating slowly. She looked like a football coach who had done a good job
with her team and was satisfied to stand next to the eighteen-yard box and
watch.
After lunch, I asked Amaka where I could ease myself, although I
knew that the toilet was the door opposite the bedroom. She seemed
irritated by my question and gestured vaguely toward the hall, asking,
“Where else do you think?”
The room was so narrow I could touch both walls if I stretched out my
hands. There were no soft rugs, no furry cover for the toilet seat and lid like
we had back home. An empty plastic bucket was near the toilet. After I
urinated, I wanted to flush but the cistern was empty; the lever went limply
up and down. I stood in the narrow room for a few minutes before leaving

to look for Aunty Ifeoma. She was in the kitchen, scrubbing the sides of the
kerosene stove with a soapy sponge.
“I will be very miserly with my new gas cylinders,” Aunty Ifeoma
said, smiling, when she saw me. “I’ll use them only for special meals, so
they will last long. I’m not packing away this kerosene stove just yet.”
I paused because what I wanted to say was so far removed from gas
cookers and kerosene stoves. I could hear Obiora’s laughter from the
verandah.
“Aunty, there’s no water to flush the toilet.”
“You urinated?”
“Yes.”
“Our water only runs in the morning, o di egwu. So we don’t flush
when we urinate, only when there is actually something to flush. Or
sometimes, when the water does not run for a few days, we just close the lid
until everybody has gone and then we flush with one bucket. It saves
water.” Aunty Ifeoma was smiling ruefully.
“Oh,” I said.
Amaka had come in as Aunty Ifeoma spoke. I watched her walk to the
refrigerator. “I’m sure that back home you flush every hour, just to keep the
water fresh, but we don’t do that here,” she said.
“Amaka, o gini? I don’t like that tone!” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“Sorry,” Amaka muttered, pouring cold water from a plastic bottle into
a glass.
I moved closer to the wall darkened by kerosene smoke, wishing I
could blend into it and disappear. I wanted to apologize to Amaka, but I was
not sure what for.
“Tomorrow, we will take Kambili and Jaja around to show them the
campus,” Aunty Ifeoma said, sounding so normal that I wondered if I had
just imagined the raised voice.
“There’s nothing to see. They will be bored.”
The phone rang then, loud and jarring, unlike the muted purr of ours
back home. Aunty Ifeoma hurried to her bedroom to pick it up. “Kambili!
Jaja!” she called out a moment later. I knew it was Papa. I waited for Jaja to
come in from the verandah so we could go in together. When we got to the
phone, Jaja stood back and gestured that I speak first.

“Hello, Papa. Good evening,” I said, and then I wondered if he could
tell that I had eaten after saying a too short prayer.
“How are you?”
“Fine, Papa.”
“The house is empty without you.”
“Oh.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No, Papa.”
“Call at once if you need anything, and I will send Kevin. I’ll call
every day. Remember to study and pray.”
“Yes, Papa.”
When Mama came on the line, her voice sounded louder than her usual
whisper, or perhaps it was just the phone. She told me Sisi had forgotten we
were away and cooked lunch for four.
When Jaja and I sat down to have dinner that evening, I thought about
Papa and Mama, sitting alone at our wide dining table. We had the leftover
rice and chicken. We drank water because the soft drinks bought in the
afternoon were finished. I thought about the always full crates of Coke and
Fanta and Sprite in the kitchen store back home and then quickly gulped my
water down as if I could wash away the thoughts. I knew that if Amaka
could read thoughts, mine would not please her. There was less talk and
laughter at dinner because the TV was on and my cousins took their plates
to the living room. The older two ignored the sofa and chairs to settle on the
floor while Chima curled up on the sofa, balancing his plastic plate on his
lap. Aunty Ifeoma asked Jaja and me to go and sit in the living room, too,
so we could see the TV clearly. I waited to hear Jaja say no, that we did not
mind sitting at the dining table, before I nodded in agreement.
Aunty Ifeoma sat with us, glancing often at the TV as she ate.
“I don’t understand why they fill our television with secondrate
Mexican shows and ignore all the potential our people have,” she muttered.
“Mom, please don’t lecture now,” Amaka said.
“It’s cheaper to import soap operas from Mexico,” Obiora said, his
eyes still glued to the television.
Aunty Ifeoma stood up. “Jaja and Kambili, we usually say the rosary
every night before bed. Of course, you can stay up as long as you want
afterward to watch TV or whatever else.”

Jaja shifted on his chair before pulling his schedule out of his pocket.
“Aunty, Papa’s schedule says we should study in the evenings; we brought
our books.”
Aunty Ifeoma stared at the paper in Jaja’s hand. Then she started to
laugh so hard that she staggered, her tall body bending like a whistling pine
tree on a windy day. “Eugene gave you a schedule to follow when you’re
here? Nekwanu anya, what does that mean?” Aunty Ifeoma laughed some
more before she held out her hand and asked for the sheet of paper. When
she turned to me, I brought mine, folded in crisp quarters, out of my skirt
pocket.
“I will keep them for you until you leave.”
“Aunty…,” Jaja started.
“If you do not tell Eugene, eh, then how will he know that you did not
follow the schedule, gbo? You are on holiday here and it is my house, so
you will follow my own rules.”
I watched Aunty Ifeoma walk into her room with our schedules. My
mouth felt dry, my tongue clinging to the roof.
“Do you have a schedule at home that you follow every day?” Amaka
asked. She lay face up on the floor, her head resting on one of the cushions
from a chair.
“Yes,” Jaja said.
“Interesting. So now rich people can’t decide what to do day by day,
they need a schedule to tell them.”
“Amaka!” Obiora shouted.
Aunty Ifeoma came out holding a huge rosary with blue beads and a
metal crucifix. Obiora turned off the TV as the credits started to slide down
the screen. Obiora and Amaka went to get their rosaries from the bedroom
while Jaja and I slipped ours out of our pockets. We knelt next to the cane
chairs and Aunty Ifeoma started the first decade. After we said the last Hail
Mary, my head snapped back when I heard the raised, melodious voice.
Amaka was singing!
“Ka m bunie afa gi enu…”
Aunty Ifeoma and Obiora joined her, their voices melding. My eyes
met Jaja’s. His eyes were watery, full of suggestions. No! I told him, with a
tight blink. It was not right. You did not break into song in the middle of the
rosary. I did not join in the singing, and neither did Jaja. Amaka broke into

song at the end of each decade, uplifting Igbo songs that made Aunty
Ifeoma sing in echoes, like an opera singer drawing the words from the pit
of her stomach.
After the rosary, Aunty Ifeoma asked if we knew any of the songs.
“We don’t sing at home,” Jaja answered.
“We do here,” Aunty Ifeoma said, and I wondered if it was irritation
that made her lower her eyebrows.
Obiora turned on the TV after Aunty Ifeoma said good night and went
into her bedroom. I sat on the sofa, next to Jaja, watching the images on TV,
but I couldn’t tell the olive-skinned characters apart. I felt as if my shadow
were visiting Aunty Ifeoma and her family, while the real me was studying
in my room in Enugu, my schedule posted above me. I stood up shortly and
went into the bedroom to get ready for bed. Even though I did not have the
schedule, I knew what time Papa had penciled in for bed. I fell off to sleep
wondering when Amaka would come in, if her lips would turn down at the
corners in a sneer when she looked at me sleeping.

I DREAMED THAT A MAKA submerged me in a toilet bowl full of greenish-
brown lumps. First my head went in, and then the bowl expanded so that
my whole body went in, too. Amaka chanted, “Flush, flush, flush,” while I
struggled to break free. I was still struggling when I woke up. Amaka had
rolled out of bed and was knotting her wrapper over her nightdress.
“We’re going to fetch water at the tap,” she said. She did not ask me to
come, but I got up, tightened my wrapper, and followed her.
Jaja and Obiora were already at the tap in the tiny backyard; old car
tires and bicycle parts and broken trunks were piled in a corner. Obiora
placed the containers under the tap, aligning the open mouths with the
rushing water. Jaja offered to take the first filled container back to the
kitchen, but Obiora said not to worry and took it in. While Amaka took the
next, Jaja placed a smaller container under the tap and filled it. He had slept
in the living room, he told me, on a mattress that Obiora unrolled from
behind the bedroom door and covered with a wrapper. I listened to him and
marveled at the wonder in his voice, at how much lighter the brown of his
pupils was. I offered to carry the next container, but Amaka laughed and
said I had soft bones and could not carry it.

When we finished, we said morning prayers in the living room, a
string of short prayers punctuated by songs. Aunty Ifeoma prayed for the
university, for the lecturers and administration, for Nigeria, and finally, she
prayed that we might find peace and laughter today. As we made the sign of
the cross, I looked up to seek out Jaja’s face, to see if he, too, was
bewildered that Aunty Ifeoma and her family prayed for, of all things,
laughter.
We took turns bathing in the narrow bathroom, with half-full buckets
of water, warmed for a while with a heating coil plunged into them. The
spotless tub had a triangular hole at one corner, and the water groaned like a
man in pain as it drained. I lathered over with my own sponge and soap—
Mama had carefully packed my toiletries—and although I scooped the
water with a shallow cup and poured it slowly over my body, I still felt
slippery as I stepped on the old towel placed on the floor.
Aunty Ifeoma was at the dining table when I came out, dissolving a
few spoonfuls of dried milk in a jug of cold water. “If I let these children
take the milk themselves, it will not last a week,” she said, before taking the
tin of Carnation dried milk back to the safety of her room. I hoped that
Amaka would not ask me if my mother did that, too, because I would stutter
if I had to tell her that we took as much creamy Peak milk as we wanted
back home. Breakfast was okpa that Obiora had dashed out to buy from
somewhere nearby. I had never had okpa for a meal, only for a snack when
we sometimes bought the steam-cooked cowpea-and-palm-oil cakes on the
drive to Abba. I watched Amaka and Aunty Ifeoma cut up the moist yellow
cake and did the same. Aunty Ifeoma asked us to hurry up. She wanted to
show Jaja and me the campus and get back in time to cook. She had invited
Father Amadi to dinner.
“Are you sure there’s enough fuel in the car, Mom?” Obiora asked.
“Enough to take us around campus, at least. I really hope fuel comes in
the next week, otherwise when we resume, I will have to walk to my
lectures.”
“Or take okada,” Amaka said, laughing.
“I will try that soon at this rate.”
“What are okada?” Jaja asked. I turned to stare at him, surprised. I did
not think he would ask that question or any other question.

“Motorcycles,” Obiora said. “They have become more popular than
taxis.”
Aunty Ifeoma stopped to pluck at some browned leaves in the garden
as we walked to the car, muttering that the harmattan was killing her plants.
Amaka and Obiora groaned and said, “Not the garden now, Mom.”
“That’s a hibiscus, isn’t it, Aunty?” Jaja asked, staring at a plant close
to the barbed wire fencing. “I didn’t know there were purple hibiscuses.”
Aunty Ifeoma laughed and touched the flower, colored a deep shade of
purple that was almost blue. “Everybody has that reaction the first time. My
good friend Phillipa is a lecturer in botany. She did a lot of experimental
work while she was here. Look, here’s white ixora, but it doesn’t bloom as
fully as the red.”
Jaja joined Aunty Ifeoma, while we stood watching them.
“O maka, so beautiful,” Jaja said. He was running a finger over a
flower petal. Aunty Ifeoma’s laughter lengthened to a few more syllables.
“Yes, it is. I had to fence my garden because the neighborhood
children came in and plucked many of the more unusual flowers. Now I
only let in the altar girls from our church or the Protestant church.”
“Mom, o zugo. Let’s go,” Amaka said. But Aunty Ifeoma spent a little
longer showing Jaja her flowers before we piled into the station wagon and
she drove off. The street she turned into was steep and she switched the
ignition off and let the car roll, loose bolts rattling. “To save fuel,” she said,
turning briefly to Jaja and me.
The houses we drove past had sunflower hedges, and the palm-size
flowers brightened the foliage in big yellow polka dots. The hedges had
many gaping holes, so I could see the backyards of the houses—the metal
water tanks balanced on unpainted cement blocks, the old tire swings
hanging from guava trees, the clothes spread out on lines tied tree to tree.
At the end of the street, Aunty Ifeoma turned the ignition on because the
road had become level.
“That’s the university primary school,” she said. “That’s where Chima
goes. It used to be so much better, but now look at all the missing louvers in
the windows, look at the dirty buildings.”
The wide schoolyard, enclosed by a trimmed whistling pine hedge,
was cluttered with long buildings as if they had all sprung up at will,
unplanned. Aunty Ifeoma pointed at a building next to the school, the

Institute of African Studies, where her office was and where she taught
most of her classes. The building was old; I could tell from the color and
from the windows, coated with the dust of so many harmattans that they
would never shine again. Aunty Ifeoma drove through a roundabout planted
with pink periwinkle flowers and lined with bricks painted alternating black
and white. On the side of the road, a field stretched out like green bed linen,
dotted by mango trees with faded leaves struggling to retain their color
against the drying wind.
“That’s the field where we have our bazaars,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“And over there are female hostels. There’s Mary Slessor Hall. Over there
is Okpara Hall, and this is Bello Hall, the most famous hostel, where
Amaka has sworn she will live when she enters the university and launches
her activist movements.”
Amaka laughed but did not dispute Aunty Ifeoma.
“Maybe you two will be together, Kambili.”
I nodded stiffly, although Aunty Ifeoma could not see me. I had never
thought about the university, where I would go or what I would study.
When the time came, Papa would decide.
Aunty Ifeoma horned and waved at two balding men in tie-dye shirts
standing at a corner as she turned. She switched the ignition off again, and
the car hurtled down the street. Gmelina and dogonyaro trees stood firmly
on either side. The sharp, astringent scent of the dogonyaro leaves filled the
car, and Amaka breathed deeply and said they cured malaria. We were in a
residential area, driving past bungalows in wide compounds with rose
bushes and faded lawns and fruit trees. The street gradually lost its tarred
smoothness and its cultivated hedges, and the houses became low and
narrow, their front doors so close together that you could stand at one,
stretch out, and touch the next door. There was no pretense at hedges here,
no pretense at separation or privacy, just low buildings side by side amid a
scattering of stunted shrubs and cashew trees. These were the junior-staff
quarters, where the secretaries and drivers lived, Aunty Ifeoma explained,
and Amaka added, “If they are lucky enough to get it.”
We had just driven past the buildings when Aunty Ifeoma pointed to
the right and said, “There is Odim hill. The view from the top is
breathtaking, when you stand there, you see just how God laid out the hills
and valleys, ezi okwu.”

When she made a U-turn and went back the way we had come, I let
my mind drift, imagining God laying out the hills of Nsukka with his wide
white hands, crescent-moon shadows underneath his nails just like Father
Benedict’s. We drove past the sturdy trees around the faculty of
engineering, past the vast mango-filled fields around the female hostels.
Aunty Ifeoma turned the opposite way when she got close to her street. She
wanted to show us the other side of Marguerite Cartwright Avenue, where
the seasoned professors lived, with the duplexes hemmed in by gravely
driveways.
“I hear that when they first built these houses, some of the white
professors—all the professors were white back then—wanted chimneys and
fireplaces,” Aunty Ifeoma said, with the same kind of indulgent laugh that
Mama let out when she talked about people who went to witch doctors. She
then pointed to the vice chancellor’s lodge, to the high walls surrounding it,
and said it used to have well-tended hedges of cherry and ixora until rioting
students jumped over the hedges and burned a car in the compound.
“What was the riot about?” Jaja asked.
“Light and water,” Obiora said, and I looked at him.
“There was no light and no water for a month,” Aunty Ifeoma added.
“The students said they could not study and asked if the exams could be
rescheduled, but they were refused.”
“The walls are hideous,” Amaka said, in English, and I wondered what
she would think of our compound walls back home, if she ever visited us.
The V.C.’s walls were not very high; I could see the big duplex that nestled
behind a canopy of trees with greenish-yellow leaves. “Putting up walls is a
superficial fix, anyway,” she continued. “If I were the V.C., the students
would not riot. They would have water and light.”
“If some Big Man in Abuja has stolen the money, is the V.C. supposed
to vomit money for Nsukka?” Obiora asked. I turned to watch him,
imagining myself at fourteen, imagining myself now.
“I wouldn’t mind somebody vomiting some money for me right now,”
Aunty Ifeoma said, laughing in that proud-coachwatching-the-team way.
“We’ll go into town to see if there is any decently priced ube in the market.
I know Father Amadi likes ube, and we have some corn at home to go with
it.”
“Will the fuel make it, Mom?” Obiora asked.

“Amarom, we can try.”
Aunty Ifeoma rolled the car down the road that led to the university
entrance gates. Jaja turned to the statue of the preening lion as we drove
past it, his lips moving soundlessly. To restore the dignity of man. Obiora
was reading the plaque, too. He let out a short cackle and asked, “But when
did man lose his dignity?”
Outside the gate, Aunty Ifeoma started the ignition again. When the
car shuddered without starting, she muttered, “Blessed Mother, please not
now,” and tried again. The car only whined. Somebody horned behind us,
and I turned to look at the woman in the yellow Peugeot 504. She came out
and walked toward us; she wore a pair of culottes that flapped around her
calves, which were lumpy like sweet potatoes.
“My own car stopped near Eastern Shop yesterday.” The woman stood
at Aunty Ifeoma’s window, her hair in a riotous curly perm swaying in the
wind. “My son sucked one liter from my husband’s car this morning, just so
I can get to the market. O di egwu. I hope fuel comes soon.”
“Let us wait and see, my sister. How is the family?” Aunty Ifeoma
asked.
“We are well. Go well.”
“Let’s push it,” Obiora suggested, already opening the car door.
“Wait.” Aunty Ifeoma turned the key again, and the car shook and then
started. She drove off, with a screech, as if she did not want to slow down
and give the car another chance to stop.
We stopped beside an ube hawker by the roadside, her bluish fruits
displayed in pyramids on an enamel tray. Aunty Ifeoma gave Amaka some
crumpled notes from her purse. Amaka bargained with the trader for a
while, and then she smiled and pointed at the pyramids she wanted. I
wondered what it felt like to do that.

BACK IN THE FLAT, I joined Aunty Ifeoma and Amaka in the kitchen
while Jaja went off with Obiora to play football with the children from the
flats upstairs. Aunty Ifeoma got one of the huge yams we had brought from
home. Amaka spread newspaper sheets on the floor to slice the tuber; it was
easier than picking it up and placing it on the counter. When Amaka put the

yam slices in a plastic bowl, I offered to help peel them and she silently
handed me a knife.
“You will like Father Amadi, Kambili,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “He’s new
at our chaplaincy, but he is so popular with everybody on campus already.
He has invitations to eat in everybody’s house.”
“I think he connects with our family the most,” Amaka said.
Aunty Ifeoma laughed. “Amaka is so protective of him.”
“You are wasting yam, Kambili,” Amaka snapped. “Ah! Ah! Is that
how you peel yam in your house?”
I jumped and dropped the knife. It fell an inch away from my foot.
“Sorry,” I said, and I was not sure if it was for dropping the knife or for
letting too much creamy white yam go with the brown peel.
Aunty Ifeoma was watching us. “Amaka, ngwa, show Kambili how to
peel it.”
Amaka looked at her mother with her lips turned down and her
eyebrows raised, as if she could not believe that anybody had to be told how
to peel yam slices properly. She picked up the knife and started to peel a
slice, letting only the brown skin go. I watched the measured movement of
her hand and the increasing length of the peel, wishing I could apologize,
wishing I knew how to do it right. She did it so well that the peel did not
break, a continuous twirling soil-studded ribbon.
“Maybe I should enter it in your schedule, how to peel a yam,” Amaka
muttered.
“Amaka!” Aunty Ifeoma shouted. “Kambili, get me some water from
the tank outside.”
I picked up the bucket, grateful for Aunty Ifeoma, for the chance to
leave the kitchen and Amaka’s scowling face. Amaka did not talk much the
rest of the afternoon, until Father Amadi arrived, in a whiff of an earthy
cologne. Chima jumped on him and held on. He shook Obiora’s hand.
Aunty Ifeoma and Amaka gave him brief hugs, and then Aunty Ifeoma
introduced Jaja and me.
“Good evening,” I said and then added, “Father.” It felt almost
sacrilegious addressing this boyish man—in an openneck T-shirt and jeans
faded so much I could not tell if they had been black or dark blue—as
Father.

“Kambili and Jaja,” he said, as if he had met us before. “How are you
enjoying your first visit to Nsukka?”
“They hate it,” Amaka said, and I immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Nsukka has its charms,” Father Amadi said, smiling. He had a
singer’s voice, a voice that had the same effect on my ears that Mama
working Pears baby oil into my hair had on my scalp. I did not fully
comprehend his English-laced Igbo sentences at dinner because my ears
followed the sound and not the sense of his speech. He nodded as he
chewed his yam and greens, and he did not speak until he had swallowed a
mouthful and sipped some water. He was at home in Aunty Ifeoma’s house;
he knew which chair had a protruding nail and could pull a thread off your
clothes. “I thought I knocked that nail in,” he said, then talked about
football with Obiora, the journalist the government had just arrested with
Amaka, the Catholic women’s organization with Aunty Ifeoma, and the
neighborhood video game with Chima.
My cousins chattered as much as before, but they waited until Father
Amadi said something first and then pounced on it in response. I thought of
the fattened chickens Papa sometimes bought for our offertory procession,
the ones we took to the altar in addition to communion wine and yams and
sometimes goats, the ones we let stroll around the backyard until Sunday
morning. The chickens rushed at the pieces of bread Sisi threw to them,
disorderly and enthusiastic. My cousins rushed at Father Amadi’s words in
the same way.
Father Amadi included Jaja and me in the conversation, asking us
questions. I knew the questions were meant for both of us because he used
the plural “you,” unu, rather than the singular, gi, yet I remained silent,
grateful for Jaja’s answers. He asked where we went to school, what
subjects we liked, if we played any sports. When he asked what church we
went to in Enugu, Jaja told him.
“St. Agnes? I visited there once to say Mass,” Father Amadi said.
I remembered then, the young visiting priest who had broken into song
in the middle of his sermon, whom Papa had said we had to pray for
because people like him were trouble for the church. There had been many
other visiting priests through the months, but I knew it was him. I just knew.
And I remembered the song he had sung.

“Did you?” Aunty Ifeoma asked. “My brother, Eugene, almost single-
handedly finances that church. Lovely church.”
“Chelukwa. Wait a minute. Your brother is Eugene Achike? The
publisher of the Standard?”
“Yes, Eugene is my elder brother. I thought I’d mentioned it before.”
Aunty Ifeoma’s smile did not quite brighten her face.
“Ezi okwu? I didn’t know.” Father Amadi shook his head. “I hear he’s
very involved in the editorial decisions. The Standard is the only paper that
dares to tell the truth these days.”
“Yes,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “And he has a brilliant editor, Ade Coker,
although I wonder how much longer before they lock him up for good.
Even Eugene’s money will not buy everything.”
“I was reading somewhere that Amnesty World is giving your brother
an award,” Father Amadi said. He was nodding slowly, admiringly, and I
felt myself go warm all over, with pride, with a desire to be associated with
Papa. I wanted to say something, to remind this handsome priest that Papa
wasn’t just Aunty Ifeoma’s brother or the Standard’s publisher, that he was
my father. I wanted some of the cloudlike warmth in Father Amadi’s eyes to
rub off on me, settle on me.
“An award?” Amaka asked, bright-eyed. “Mom, we should at least buy
the Standard once in a while so we’ll know what is going on.”
“Or we could ask for free copies to be sent to us, if prides were
swallowed,” Obiora said.
“I didn’t even know about the award,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Not that
Eugene would tell me anyway, igasikwa. We can’t even have a
conversation. After all, I had to use a pilgrimage to Aokpe to get him to say
yes to the children’s visiting us.”
“So you plan to go to Aokpe?” Father Amadi asked.
“I was not really planning to. But I suppose we will have to go now, I
will find out the next apparition date.”
“People are making this whole apparition thing up. Didn’t they say
Our Lady was appearing at Bishop Shanahan Hospital the other time? And
then that she was appearing in Transekulu?” Obiora asked.
“Aokpe is different. It has all the signs of Lourdes,” Amaka said.
“Besides, it’s about time Our Lady came to Africa. Don’t you wonder how

come she always appears in Europe? She was from the Middle East, after
all.”
“What is she now, the Political Virgin?” Obiora asked, and I looked at
him again. He was a bold, male version of what I could never have been at
fourteen, what I still was not.
Father Amadi laughed. “But she’s appeared in Egypt, Amaka. At least
people flocked there, like they are flocking to Aokpe now. O bugodi, like
migrating locusts.”
“You don’t sound like you believe, Father.” Amaka was watching him.
“I don’t believe we have to go to Aokpe or anywhere else to find her.
She is here, she is within us, leading us to her Son.” He spoke so
effortlessly, as if his mouth were a musical instrument that just let sound out
when touched, when opened.
“But what about the Thomas inside us, Father? The part that needs to
see to believe?” Amaka asked. She had that expression that made me
wonder if she was serious or not.
Father Amadi did not respond; instead he made a face, and Amaka
laughed, the gap between her teeth wider, more angular, than Aunty
Ifeoma’s, as if someone had pried her two front teeth apart with a metal
instrument.
After dinner, we all retired to the living room, and Aunty Ifeoma asked
Obiora to turn the TV off so we could pray while Father Amadi was here.
Chima had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Obiora leaned against him
throughout the rosary. Father Amadi led the first decade, and at the end, he
started an Igbo praise song. While they sang, I opened my eyes and stared
at the wall, at the picture of the family at Chima’s baptism. Next to it was a
grainy copy of the pietà, the wooden frame cracked at the corners. I pressed
my lips together, biting my lower lip, so my mouth would not join in the
singing on its own, so my mouth would not betray me.
We put our rosaries away and sat in the living room eating corn and
ube and watching Newsline on television. I looked up to find Father
Amadi’s eyes on me, and suddenly I could not lick the ube flesh from the
seed. I could not move my tongue, could not swallow. I was too aware of
his eyes, too aware that he was looking at me, watching me. “I haven’t seen
you laugh or smile today, Kambili,” he said, finally.

I looked down at my corn. I wanted to say I was sorry that I did not
smile or laugh, but my words would not come, and for a while even my ears
could hear nothing.
“She is shy,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
I muttered a word I knew was nonsense and stood up and walked into
the bedroom, making sure to close the door that led to the hallway. Father
Amadi’s musical voice echoed in my ears until I fell asleep.

Laughter always rang out in Aunty Ifeoma’s house, and no
matter where the laughter came from, it bounced around all the walls, all
the rooms. Arguments rose quickly and fell just as quickly. Morning and
night prayers were always peppered with songs, Igbo praise songs that
usually called for hand clapping. Food had little meat, each person’s piece
the width of two fingers pressed close together and the length of half a
finger. The flat always sparkled—Amaka scrubbed the floors with a stiff
brush, Obiora did the sweeping, Chima plumped up the cushions on the
chairs. Everybody took turns washing plates. Aunty Ifeoma included Jaja
and me in the plate-washing schedule, and after I washed the garri-
encrusted lunch plates, Amaka picked them off the tray where I had placed
them to dry and soaked them in water. “Is this how you wash plates in your
house?” she asked. “Or is plate washing not included in your fancy
schedule?”
I stood there, staring at her, wishing Aunty Ifeoma were there to speak
for me. Amaka glared at me for a moment longer and then walked away.
She said nothing else to me until her friends came over that afternoon, when
Aunty Ifeoma and Jaja were in the garden and the boys were playing
football out front. “Kambili, these are my friends from school,” she said,
casually.
The two girls said hello, and I smiled. They had hair as short as
Amaka’s, wore shiny lipstick and trousers so tight I knew they would walk
differently if they were wearing something more comfortable. I watched
them examine themselves in the mirror, pore over an American magazine
with a brown-skinned, honey-haired woman on the cover, and talk about a
math teacher who didn’t know the answers to his own tests, a girl who wore
a miniskirt to evening lesson even though she had fat yams on her legs, and
a boy who was fine. “Fine, sha, not attractive,” one of them stressed. She
wore a dangling earring on one ear and a shiny, false gold stud on the other.
“Is it all your hair?” the other one asked, and I did not realize she was
referring to me, until Amaka said, “Kambili!”
I wanted to tell the girl that it was all my hair, that there were no
attachments, but the words would not come. I knew they were still talking
about hair, how long and thick mine looked. I wanted to talk with them, to
laugh with them so much that I would start to jump up and down in one

place the way they did, but my lips held stubbornly together. I did not want
to stutter, so I started to cough and then ran out and into the toilet.
That evening, as I set the table for dinner, I heard Amaka say, “Are you
sure they’re not abnormal, mom? Kambili just behaved like an atulu when
my friends came.” Amaka had neither raised nor lowered her voice, and it
drifted clearly in from the kitchen.
“Amaka, you are free to have your opinions, but you must treat your
cousin with respect. Do you understand that?” Aunty Ifeoma replied in
English, her voice firm.
“I was just asking a question.”
“Showing respect is not calling your cousin a sheep.”
“She behaves funny. Even Jaja is strange. Something is not right with
them.”
My hand shook as I tried to straighten a piece of the table surface that
had cracked and curled tightly around itself. A line of tiny ginger-colored
ants marched near it. Aunty Ifeoma had told me not to bother the ants, since
they hurt no one and you could never really get rid of them anyway; they
were as old as the building itself.
I looked across at the living room to see if Jaja had heard Amaka over
the sound of the television. But he was engrossed in the images on the
screen, lying on the floor next to Obiora. He looked as though he had been
lying there watching TV his whole life. It was the same way he looked in
Aunty Ifeoma’s garden the next morning, as though it were something he
had been doing for a long time rather than the few days we had been here.
Aunty Ifeoma asked me to join them in the garden, to carefully pick
out leaves that had started to wilt on the croton plants.
“Aren’t they pretty?” Aunty Ifeoma asked. “Look at that, green and
pink and yellow on the leaves. Like God playing with paint brushes.”
“Yes,” I said. Aunty Ifeoma was looking at me, and I wondered if she
was thinking that my voice lacked the enthusiasm of Jaja’s when she talked
about her garden.
Some of the children from the flats upstairs came down and stood
watching us. They were about five, all a blur of food-stained clothes and
fast words. They talked to one another and to Aunty Ifeoma, and then one
of them turned and asked me what school I went to in Enugu. I stuttered
and gripped hard at some fresh croton leaves, pulling them off, watching the

viscous liquid drip from their stalks. After that, Aunty Ifeoma said I could
go inside if I wanted to. She told me about a book she had just finished
reading: it was on the table in her room and she was sure I would like it. So
I went in her room and took a book with a faded blue cover, called
Equiano’s Travels, or the Life of Gustavus Vassa the African.
I sat on the verandah, with the book on my lap, watching one of the
children chase a butterfly in the front yard. The butterfly dipped up and
down, and its black-spotted yellow wings flapped slowly, as if teasing the
little girl. The girl’s hair, held atop her head like a ball of wool, bounced as
she ran. Obiora was sitting on the verandah, too, but outside the shade, so
he squinted behind his thick glasses to keep the sun out of his eyes. He was
watching the girl and the butterfly while repeating the name Jaja slowly,
placing the stress on both syllables, then on the first, then on the second.
“Aja means sand or oracle, but Jaja? What kind of name is Jaja? It is not
Igbo,” he finally pronounced.
“My name is actually Chukwuka. Jaja is a childhood nickname that
stuck.” Jaja was on his knees. He wore only a pair of denim shorts, and the
muscles on his back rippled, smooth and long like the ridges he weeded.
“When he was a baby, all he could say was Ja-Ja. So everybody called
him Jaja,” Aunty Ifeoma said. She turned to Jaja and added, “I told your
mother that it was an appropriate nickname, that you would take after Jaja
of Opobo.”
“Jaja of Opobo? The stubborn king?” Obiora asked.
“Defiant,” Aunt Ifeoma said. “He was a defiant king.”
“What does defiant mean, Mommy? What did the king do?” Chima
asked. He was in the garden, doing something on his knees, too, although
Aunty Ifeoma often told him “Kwusia, don’t do that” or “If you do that
again, I will give you a knock.”
“He was king of the Opobo people,” Aunty Ifeoma said, “and when
the British came, he refused to let them control all the trade. He did not sell
his soul for a bit of gunpowder like the other kings did, so the British exiled
him to the West Indies. He never returned to Opobo.” Aunt Ifeoma
continued watering the row of tiny banana-colored flowers that clustered in
bunches. She held a metal watering can in her hand, tilting it to let the water
out through the nozzle. She had already used up the biggest container of
water we fetched in the morning.

“That’s sad. Maybe he should not have been defiant,” Chima said. He
moved closer to squat next to Jaja. I wondered if he understood what
“exiled” and “sold his soul for a bit of gunpowder” meant. Aunty Ifeoma
spoke as though she expected that he did.
“Being defiant can be a good thing sometimes,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“Defiance is like marijuana—it is not a bad thing when it is used right.”
The solemn tone, more than the sacrilege of what she said, made me
look up. Her conversation was with Chima and Obiora, but she was looking
at Jaja.
Obiora smiled and pushed his glasses up. “Jaja of Opobo was no saint,
anyway. He sold his people into slavery, and besides, the British won in the
end. So much for the defiance.”
“The British won the war, but they lost many battles,” Jaja said, and
my eyes skipped over the rows of text on the page. How did Jaja do it? How
could he speak so easily? Didn’t he have the same bubbles of air in his
throat, keeping the words back, letting out only a stutter at best? I looked up
to watch him, to watch his dark skin covered with beads of sweat that
gleamed in the sun. I had never seen his arm move this way, never seen this
piercing light in his eyes that appeared when he was in Aunty Ifeoma’s
garden.
“What happened to your little finger?” Chima asked. Jaja looked
down, too, as if he were just then noticing the gnarled finger, deformed like
a dried stick.
“Jaja had an accident,” Aunty Ifeoma said, quickly. “Chima, go and
get me the container of water. It is almost empty, so you can carry it.”
I stared at Aunty Ifeoma, and when her eyes met mine, I looked away.
She knew. She knew what had happened to Jaja’s finger.
When he was ten, he had missed two questions on his catechism test
and was not named the best in his First Holy Communion class. Papa took
him upstairs and locked the door. Jaja, in tears, came out supporting his left
hand with his right, and Papa drove him to St. Agnes hospital. Papa was
crying, too, as he carried Jaja in his arms like a baby all the way to the car.
Later, Jaja told me that Papa had avoided his right hand because it is the
hand he writes with.
“This is about to bloom,” Aunt Ifeoma said to Jaja, pointing at an ixora
bud. “Another two days and it will open its eyes to the world.”

“I probably won’t see it,” Jaja said. “We’ll be gone by then.”
Aunty Ifeoma smiled. “Don’t they say that time flies when you are
happy?”
The phone rang then, and Aunty Ifeoma asked me to pick it up, since I
was closest to the front door. It was Mama. I knew something was wrong
right away, because it was Papa who always placed the call. Besides, they
did not call in the afternoon.
“Your father is not here,” Mama said. Her voice sounded nasal, as if
she needed to blow her nose. “He had to leave this morning.”
“Is he well?” I asked.
“He is well.” She paused, and I could hear her talking to Sisi. Then she
came back to the phone and said that yesterday soldiers had gone to the
small, nondescript rooms that served as the offices of the Standard. Nobody
knew how they had found out where the offices were. There were so many
soldiers that the people on that street told Papa it reminded them of pictures
from the front during the civil war. The soldiers took every copy of the
entire press run, smashed furniture and printers, locked the offices, took the
keys, and boarded up the doors and windows. Ade Coker was in custody
again.
“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 the 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.
“Well done. Imana, you know sucking fuel is a skill you need these
days,” Father Amadi said. His wry smile did little to mar the perfect clay
smoothness of his features. Aunty Ifeoma came out dressed in a plain black
boubou. She wore no shiny lipstick, and her lips looked chapped. She
hugged Father Amadi. “Thank you, Father.”
“I can drive you to Abba later this afternoon, after my office hours.”
“No, Father. Thank you. I will go with Obiora.”
Aunty Ifeoma drove off with Obiora in the front seat, and Father
Amadi left soon after. Chima went upstairs to the neighbor’s flat. Amaka
went into her room and turned on her music, high enough that I heard it
clearly from the verandah. I could tell her culturally conscious musicians
apart now. I could distinguish the pure tones of Onyeka Onwenu, the brash
power of Fela, the soothing wisdom of Osadebe. Jaja was in the garden with
Aunt Ifeoma’s shears, and I sat with the book I was almost finished reading,
watching him. He held the shears with both hands, above his head, clipping
away.

“Do you think we’re abnormal?” I asked, in a whisper.
“Gini?”
“Amaka said we’re abnormal.”
Jaja looked at me, then away, toward the line of garages in the front
yard. “What does abnormal mean?” he asked, a question that did not need
or want an answer, and then went back to trimming the plants.
Aunty Ifeoma came back in the afternoon when the buzz of a bee
around the garden was almost lulling me to sleep. Obiora helped Papa-
Nnukwu out of the car, Papa-Nnukwu leaning against him as they walked
into the flat. Amaka ran out and pressed her side lightly to Papa-Nnukwu’s.
His eyes drooped, his lids looked as though they had weights placed on
them, but he smiled and said something that made Amaka laugh.
“Papa-Nnukwu, nno,” I said.
“Kambili,” he said, weakly.
Aunty Ifeoma wanted Papa-Nnukwu to lie down on Amaka’s bed, but
he said he preferred the floor. The bed was too springy. Obiora and Jaja
dressed the spare mattress and placed it on the floor, and Aunty Ifeoma
helped Papa-Nnukwu lower himself onto it. His eyes closed almost at once,
although the lid of his going-blind eye remained slightly open, as if he were
stealing a peek at all of us from the land of tired, ill sleep. He seemed taller
lying down, occupying the length of the mattress, and I remembered what
he had said about simply reaching out to pluck icheku from the tree, in his
youth. The only icheku tree I had seen was huge, with branches grazing the
roof of a duplex. Still, I believed Papa-Nnukwu, that he had simply raised
his hands to pluck the black icheku pods from the branches.
“I’ll make ofe nsala for dinner. Papa-Nnukwu likes that,” Amaka said.
“I hope he will eat. Chinyelu said even water has been hard for him to
take in the last two days.” Aunty Ifeoma was watching Papa-Nnukwu. She
bent and flicked gently at the rough white calluses on his feet. Narrow lines
ran across his soles, like cracks in a wall.
“Will you take him to the medical center today or tomorrow morning,
Mom?” Amaka asked.
“Have you forgotten, imarozi, that the doctors went on strike just
before Christmas? I called Doctor Nduoma before I left, though, and he said
he will come by this evening.”

Doctor Nduoma lived on Marguerite Cartwright Avenue, too, down the
street, in one of the duplexes with BEWARE OF DOGS signs and wide lawns.
He was director of the medical center, Amaka told Jaja and me, as we
watched him get out of his red Peugeot 504 a few hours later. But since the
doctors’ strike had started, he had run a small clinic in town. The clinic was
cramped, Amaka said. She had gotten her chloroquine injections there the
last time she had malaria, and the nurse had boiled water on a smoky
kerosene stove. Amaka was pleased that Doctor Nduoma had come to the
house; the fumes alone in the stuffy clinic could choke Papa-Nnukwu, she
said.
Doctor Nduoma had a permanent smile plastered on his face, as
though he would break bad news to a patient with a smile. He hugged
Amaka, and then shook hands with Jaja and me. Amaka followed him into
her bedroom to look at Papa-Nnukwu.
“Papa-Nnukwu is so skinny now,” Jaja said. We were sitting side by
side on the verandah. The sun had fallen and there was a light breeze. Many
of the children from the flats were playing football in the compound. From
a flat upstairs, an adult yelled, “Nee anya, if you children make patches on
the garage walls with that ball, I will cut off your ears!” The children
laughed as the football hit the garage walls; the dust-covered ball left the
walls polka-dotted brown.
“Do you think Papa will find out?” I asked.
“What?”
I laced my fingers together. How could Jaja not know what I meant?
“That Papa-Nnukwu is here with us. In the same house.”
“I don’t know.”
Jaja’s tone made me turn and stare at him. His brows were not knotted
in worry, as I was sure mine were. “Did you tell Aunty Ifeoma about your
finger?” I asked. I should not have asked. I should have let it be. But there,
it was out. It was only when I was alone with Jaja that the bubbles in my
throat let my words come out.
“She asked me, and I told her.” He was tapping his foot on the
verandah floor in an energetic rhythm.
I stared at my hands, at the short nails that Papa used to cut to a
chafing shortness, when I would sit between his legs and his cheek would

brush mine gently, until I was old enough to do it myself—and I always cut
them to a chafing shortness, too. Had Jaja forgotten that we never told, that
there was so much that we never told? When people asked, he always said
his finger was “something” that had happened at home. That way, it was not
a lie and it let them imagine some accident, perhaps involving a heavy door.
I wanted to ask Jaja why he had told Aunty Ifeoma, but I knew there was no
need to, that this was one question he did not know the answer to.
“I am going to wipe down Aunty Ifeoma’s car,” Jaja said, getting up.
“I wish the water ran so I could wash it. It is so dusty.”
I watched him walk into the flat. He had never washed a car at home.
His shoulders seemed broader, and I wondered if it was possible for a
teenager’s shoulders to broaden in a week. The mild breeze was heavy with
the smell of dust and the bruised leaves Jaja had cut. From the kitchen, the
spices in Amaka’s ofe nsala tickled my nose. I realized then that Jaja had
been tapping his feet to the beat of an Igbo song that Aunty Ifeoma and my
cousins sang at evening rosary.
I was still sitting on the verandah, reading, when Doctor Nduoma left.
He talked and laughed as Aunty Ifeoma walked him to his car, telling her
how tempted he was to ignore the patients waiting in his clinic so he could
take her up on her offer of dinner. “That soup smells like something Amaka
washed her hands well to cook,” he said.
Aunty Ifeoma came to the verandah and watched him drive off.
“Thank you, nna m,” she called out to Jaja, who was cleaning her car
parked in front of the flat. I had never heard her call Jaja “nna m,” “my
father”—it was what she sometimes called her sons.
Jaja came up to the verandah. “It’s nothing, Aunty.” He lifted his
shoulders as he stood there, like someone proudly wearing clothes that were
not his size. “What did the doctor say?”
“He wants us to get some tests done. I will take your Papa-Nnukwu to
the medical center tomorrow, at least the labs there are still open.”

AUNTY IFEOMA TOOK Papa-Nnukwu to the University Medical Center in
the morning and came back shortly afterward, her mouth set in a full pout.
The lab staff was on strike, too, so Papa-Nnukwu could not have the tests
done. Aunty Ifeoma stared at the middle distance and said she would have

to find a private lab in town and, in a lower voice, said the private labs
jacked up their fees so much that a simple typhoid fever test cost more than
the medicine for the fever. She would have to ask Dr. Nduoma if she really
had to have all the tests done. She would not have paid a kobo at the
medical center; at least there was still that benefit to being a lecturer. She
left Papa-Nnukwu to rest and went out to buy the medicine that Doctor
Nduoma had prescribed, worry lines etched in her forehead.
That evening, though, Papa-Nnukwu felt well enough to get up for
dinner, and the knots on Aunty Ifeoma’s face loosened a little. We had
leftover ofe nsala and garri, pounded to a sticky softness by Obiora.
“Eating garri at night is not right,” Amaka said. But she was not
scowling as she usually did when she complained; instead, she had that
fresh smile that showed the gap in her teeth, the smile she seemed to always
have when Papa-Nnukwu was around. “It rests heavy in your stomach when
you eat it at night.”
Papa-Nnukwu clucked. “What did our fathers eat at night in their time,
gbo? They ate pure cassava. Garri is for you modern ones. It does not even
have the flavor of pure cassava.”
“But you have to eat all of yours, anyway, nna anyi.” Aunty Ifeoma
reached over and plucked a morsel from Papa-Nnukwu’s garri; she dug a
hole in it with one finger, inserted a white medicine tablet, and then molded
the morsel into a smooth ball. She placed it on Papa-Nnukwu’s plate. She
did the same with four other tablets. “He will not take the medicine unless I
do this,” she said in English. “He says tablets are bitter, but you should taste
the kola nuts he chews happily—they taste like bile.”
My cousins laughed.
“Morality, as well as the sense of taste, is relative,” Obiora said.
“Eh? What are you saying about me, gbo?” Papa-Nnukwu asked.
“Nna anyi, I want to see you swallow them,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
Papa-Nnukwu dutifully picked up each molded morsel, dunked it in
soup, and swallowed. When the five were gone, Aunty Ifeoma asked him to
drink some water so the tablets could break down and start to help his body
heal. He took a gulp of water and set the glass down. “When you become
old, they treat you like a child,” he muttered.
Just then the TV made a scratchy sound like pouring dry sand on paper
and the lights went off. A blanket of darkness covered the room.

“Hei,” Amaka groaned. “This is not a good time for NEPA to take
light. I wanted to watch something on TV.”
Obiora moved through the darkness to the two kerosene lamps that
stood at the corner of the room and lit them. I smelled the kerosene fumes
almost immediately; they made my eyes water and my throat itch.
“Papa-Nnukwu, tell us a folk story, then, just like we do in Abba,”
Obiora said. “It is better than TV anyway.”
“O di mma. But first, you have not told me how those people in the TV
climb into it.”
My cousins laughed. It was something Papa-Nnukwu said often to
make them laugh. I could tell from the way they started to laugh even
before he finished speaking.
“Tell us the story of why the tortoise has a cracked shell!” Chima
piped up.
“I would like to know why the tortoise features so much in our
people’s stories,” Obiora said in English.
“Tell us the story of why the tortoise has a cracked shell!” Chima
repeated.
Papa-Nnukwu cleared his throat. “Long ago, when animals talked and
lizards were few, there was a big famine in the land of the animals. Farms
dried up and the soil cracked. Hunger killed many of the animals and the
ones left behind did not even have the strength to dance the mourning dance
at funerals. One day all the male animals had a meeting to decide what
could be done, before hunger wiped out the whole village.
“They all staggered to the meeting, bony and weak. Even Lion’s roar
was now like the whine of a mouse. Tortoise could hardly carry his shell. It
was only Dog that looked well. His fur shone with good health and you
could not see the bones under his skin because they were padded with flesh.
The animals all asked Dog how he remained so well in the midst of famine.
‘I have been eating feces like I always do,’ Dog answered.
“The other animals used to laugh at Dog because he and his family
were known to eat feces. None of the other animals could imagine
themselves eating feces. Lion took control of the meeting and said, ‘Since
we cannot eat feces like Dog, we must think of a way to feed ourselves.’
“The animals thought long and hard until Rabbit suggested that all the
animals kill their mothers and eat them. Many of the animals disagreed with

this, they still remembered the sweetness of their mothers’ breast milk. But
finally they all agreed that it was the best alternative, since they would all
die anyway if nothing was done.”
“I could never eat Mommy,” Chima said, giggling.
“It might not be a good idea, that tough skin,” Obiora said.
“The mothers did not mind being sacrificed,” Papa-Nnukwu
continued. “And so each week a mother was killed and the animals shared
the meat. Soon they were all looking well again. Then, a few days before it
was time for Dog’s mother to be killed, Dog ran out wailing the mourning
song for his mother. She had died of the disease. The other animals
sympathized with Dog and offered to help bury her. Since she had died of
the disease, they could not eat her. Dog refused any help and said he would
bury her himself. He was distraught that she would not have the honor of
dying like the other mothers who were sacrificed for the village.
“Only a few days later, Tortoise was on his way to his parched farm to
see if there were any dried vegetables to be harvested. He stopped to ease
himself near a bush, but because the bush was wilted it did not give good
cover. He was able to see across the bush and he saw Dog, looking up and
singing. Tortoise wondered if perhaps Dog’s grief had made him go mad.
Why was Dog singing to the sky? Tortoise listened and heard what Dog was
singing: ‘Nne, Nne, Mother, Mother.’”
“Njemanze!” my cousins chorused.
“‘Nne, Nne, I have come.’”
“Njemanze!”
“‘Nne, Nne, let down the rope. I have come.’”
“Njemanze!”
“Tortoise came out then and challenged Dog. Dog admitted that his
mother had not really died, that she had gone to the sky where she lived
with wealthy friends. It was because she fed him daily from the sky that he
looked so well. ‘Abomination!’ Tortoise bellowed. ‘So much for eating
feces! Wait until the rest of the village hears what you have done.’
“Of course, Tortoise was as cunning as always. He had no intention of
telling the village. He knew that Dog would offer to take him to the sky,
too. When Dog did, Tortoise pretended to think about it before accepting.
But saliva had already started to run down his cheeks. Dog sang the song
again and a rope descended from the sky and the two animals went up.

“Dog’s mother was not pleased that her son had brought a friend but
she served them well anyway. Tortoise ate like an animal with no home
training. He ate almost all of the fufu and onugbu soup and poured a full
horn of palm wine down his throat when his mouth was full of food. After
the meal they descended the rope. Tortoise told Dog he would tell no one as
long as Dog took him to the sky every day until the rains came and the
famine ended. Dog agreed—what else could he do? The more Tortoise ate
in the sky, the more he wanted, until one day he decided that he would go to
the sky by himself so that he would get to eat Dog’s portion as well as his.
He went to the spot by the dry bush and started singing, mimicking Dog’s
voice. The rope started to fall. Just then, Dog came by and saw what was
happening. Furious, Dog started to sing loudly. ‘Nne, Nne, Mother,
Mother.’”
“Njemanze!” my cousins chorused.
“‘Nne, Nne, it is not your son coming up.’”
“Njemanze!”
“‘Nne, Nne, cut the rope. It is not your son coming up. It is the
cunning Tortoise.’”
“Njemanze!”
“Right away, Dog’s mother cut the rope and Tortoise, already halfway
to the sky, came hurtling down. Tortoise fell on a pile of stones and cracked
his shell. To this day, the Tortoise has a cracked shell.”
Chima chortled. “The tortoise has a cracked shell!”
“Don’t you wonder how only Dog’s mother got up to the sky in the
first place?” Obiora asked in English.
“Or who the wealthy friends in the sky were,” Amaka said.
“Probably Dog’s ancestors,” Obiora said.
My cousins and Jaja laughed, and Papa-Nnukwu laughed, too, a gentle
chuckle, as if he had understood the English, then leaned back and closed
his eyes. I watched them and wished that I had joined in chanting the
Njemanze! response.

Papa-Nnukwu had woken up before everyone else. He wanted to
have breakfast sitting on the verandah, to watch the morning sun. And so
Aunty Ifeoma asked Obiora to spread a mat on the verandah, and we all sat
and had breakfast with Papa-Nnukwu, listening to him talk about the men
who tapped palm wine in the village, how they left at dawn to climb up the
palm trees because the trees gave sour wine after the sun rose. I could tell
that he missed the village, that he missed seeing those palm trees the men
climbed, with a raffia belt encircling them and the tree trunk.
Although we had bread and okpa and Bournvita for breakfast, Aunty
Ifeoma made a little fufu to bury Papa-Nnukwu’s tablets in, soft spherical
coffins that she carefully watched Papa-Nnukwu swallow. The cloud had
lifted from her face.
“He will be fine,” she said, in English. “Soon he will start nagging
about wanting to go back to the village.”
“He must stay for a while,” Amaka said. “Maybe he should live here,
Mom. I don’t think that girl Chinyelu takes proper care of him.”
“Igasikwa! He will never agree to live here.”
“When will you take him to do the tests?”
“Tomorrow. Doctor Nduoma said I can have two tests done instead of
all four. The private labs in town always want full payment, so I will have
to go to the bank first. I don’t think I will finish in time to take him today,
with all those lines at the bank.”
A car drove into the compound then, and even before Amaka asked,
“Is that Father Amadi?” I knew it was him. I had seen the small Toyota
hatchback only twice before, but I could point it out anywhere. My hands
started to shake.
“He said he would stop by and see your Papa-Nnukwu,” Aunty Ifeoma
said.
Father Amadi wore his soutane, long-sleeved and loosefitting, with a
loose black rope slanted around his waist. Even in the priestly garb, his
loping, comfortable gait pulled my eyes and held them. I turned and dashed
into the flat. I could see the front yard clearly from the window in the
bedroom, which had a few louvers missing. I pressed my face close to the
window, close to the small tear in the mosquito netting that Amaka blamed
for letting in every moth that flapped around the light bulb at night. Father

Amadi was standing by the window, close enough for me to see the way his
hair lay in wavy curls on his head, like the ripples in a stream.
“His recovery has been so swift, Father, Chukwu aluka,” Aunty Ifeoma
said.
“Our God is faithful, Ifeoma,” he said happily, as though Papa-
Nnukwu were his own relative. Then he told her that he was on his way to
Isienu, to visit a friend who had just got back from missionary work in
Papua New Guinea. He turned to Jaja and Obiora and said, “I will come by
this evening to pick you up. We’ll play in the stadium with some of the boys
from the seminary.”
“Okay, Father.” Jaja’s voice was strong.
“Where is Kambili?” he asked.
I looked down at my chest, which was heaving now. I did not know
why, but I was grateful that he had said my name, that he remembered my
name.
“I think she is inside,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“Jaja, tell her she can come with us if she likes.”
When he came back that evening, I pretended I was taking a siesta. I
waited to hear his car drive off, with Jaja and Obiora inside, before I came
out into the living room. I had not wanted to go with them, and yet when I
could no longer hear the sound of his car, I wished I could run after it.
Amaka was in the living room with Papa-Nnukwu, slowly oiling the
few tufts of hair on his head with Vaseline. Afterward, she smoothed talcum
powder on his face and chest.
“Kambili,” Papa-Nnukwu said, when he saw me. “Your cousin paints
well. In the old days, she would have been chosen to decorate the shrines of
our gods.” He sounded dreamy. Some of his medications probably made
him drowsy. Amaka did not look at me; she gave his hair one last pat—a
caress, really—and then sat down on the floor in front of him. I followed
the swift movements of her hand as she moved the brush from palette to
paper and then back again. She painted so quickly that I thought it would all
be a muddle on the paper, until I looked and saw the form clearly taking
shape—a lean, graceful form. I could hear the ticking of the clock on the
wall, the one with the picture of the Pope leaning on his staff. The silence
was delicate. Aunty Ifeoma was scraping a burnt pot in the kitchen, and the
kroo-kroo-kroo of the metal spoon on the pot seemed intrusive. Amaka and

Papa-Nnukwu spoke sometimes, their voices low, twining together. They
understood each other, using the sparest words. Watching them, I felt a
longing for something I knew I would never have. I wanted to get up and
leave, but my legs did not belong to me, did not do what I wanted them to.
Finally, I pushed myself up and went into the kitchen; neither Papa-
Nnukwu nor Amaka noticed when I left.
Aunty Ifeoma sat on a low stool, pulling the brown skin off hot
cocoyams, throwing the sticky, rounded tubers in the wooden mortar and
stopping to cool her hands in a bowl of cold water.
“Why do you look that way, o gini?” she asked.
‘What way, Aunty?”
“There are tears in your eyes.”
I felt my wet eyes. “Something must have flown into my eyes.”
Aunty Ifeoma looked doubtful. “Help me with the cocoyams,” she
said, finally.
I pulled a low stool close to her and sat down. The skins seemed to slip
off easily enough for Aunty Ifeoma, but when I pressed one end of a tuber,
the rough brown skin stayed put and the heat stung my palms.
“Soak your hand in water first.” She demonstrated where and how to
press, to have the skin come sliding off. I watched her pound the cocoyams,
dipping the pestle often into the bowl of water so the cocoyam wouldn’t
stick too much to it. Still, the sticky white mash clung to the pestle, to the
mortar, to Aunty Ifeoma’s hand. She was pleased, though, because it would
thicken the onugbu soup well.
“See how well your Papa-Nnukwu is doing?” she asked. “He has been
sitting up so long for Amaka to paint him. It’s a miracle. Our Lady is
faithful.”
“How can Our Lady intercede on behalf of a heathen, Aunty?”
Aunty Ifeoma was silent as she ladled the thick cocoyam paste into the
soup pot; then she looked up and said Papa-Nnukwu was not a heathen but
a traditionalist, that sometimes what was different was just as good as what
was familiar, that when Papa-Nnukwu did his itu-nzu, his declaration of
innocence, in the morning, it was the same as our saying the rosary. She
said a few other things, but I was not really listening, because I heard
Amaka laughing in the living room with Papa-Nnukwu, and I wondered
what they were laughing about, and whether they would stop laughing if I

went in there.

WHEN AUNTY IFEOMA woke me up, the room was dim and the shrills of
the night crickets were dying away. A rooster’s crow drifted through the
window above my bed.
“Nne.” Aunty Ifeoma patted my shoulder. “Your Papa-Nnukwu is on
the verandah. Go and watch him.”
I felt wide awake, although I had to pry my eyes open with my fingers.
I remembered Aunty Ifeoma’s words from the day before, about Papa-
Nnuwku being a traditionalist and not a heathen. Still, I was not sure why
she wanted me to go and watch him on the verandah.
“Nne, remember to be quiet. Just watch him.” Aunty Ifeoma whispered
to avoid waking Amaka.
I tied my wrapper around my chest, over my pink-and-white flowered
nightgown, and padded out of the room. The door that led to the verandah
was half open, and the purplish tinge of early dawn trickled into the living
room. I did not want to turn the light on because Papa-Nnukwu would
notice, so I stood by the door, against the wall.
Papa-Nnukwu was on a low wooden stool, his legs bent into a triangle.
The loose knot of his wrapper had come undone, and the wrapper had
slipped off his waist to cover the stool, its faded blue edges grazing the
floor. A kerosene lamp, turned to its lowest, was right next to him. The
flickering light cast a topaz glow over the narrow verandah, over the stubby
gray hairs on Papa-Nnukwu’s chest, over the loose, soil-colored skin on his
legs. He leaned down to draw a line on the floor with the nzu in his hand.
He was speaking, his face down as if addressing the white chalk line, which
now looked yellow. He was talking to the gods or the ancestors; I
remembered Aunty Ifeoma saying that the two could be interchanged.
“Chineke! I thank you for this new morning! I thank you for the sun
that rises.” His lower lip quivered as he spoke. Perhaps that was why his
Igbo words flowed into each other, as if writing his speech would result in a
single long word. He bent down to draw another line, quickly, with a fierce
determination that shook the flesh on his arm, which was hanging low like a
brown leather pouch. “Chineke! I have killed no one, I have taken no one’s
land, I have not committed adultery.” He leaned over and drew the third

line. The stool squeaked. “Chineke! I have wished others well. I have
helped those who have nothing with the little that my hands can spare.”
A cock was crowing, a drawn-out, plaintive sound that seemed very
close close by.
“Chineke! Bless me. Let me find enough to fill my stomach. Bless my
daughter, Ifeoma. Give her enough for her family.” He shifted on the stool.
His navel had once jutted out, I could tell, but now it looked like a wrinkled
eggplant, drooping.
“Chineke! Bless my son, Eugene. Let the sun not set on his prosperity.
Lift the curse they have put on him.” Papa-Nnukwu leaned over and drew
one more line. I was surprised that he prayed for Papa with the same
earnestness that he prayed for himself and Aunty Ifeoma.
“Chineke! Bless the children of my children. Let your eyes follow
them away from evil and towards good.” Papa-Nnukwu smiled as he spoke.
His few front teeth seemed a deeper yellow in the light, like fresh corn
kernels. The wide gaps in his gums were tinged a subtle tawny color.
“Chineke! Those who wish others well, keep them well. Those who wish
others ill, keep them ill.” Papa-Nnukwu drew the last line, longer than the
rest, with a flourish. He was done.
When Papa-Nnukwu rose and stretched, his entire body, like the bark
of the gnarled gmelina tree in our yard, captured the gold shadows from the
lamp flame in its many furrows and ridges. Even the age spots that dotted
his hands and legs gleamed. I did not look away, although it was sinful to
look upon another person’s nakedness. The rumples in Papa-Nnukwu’s
belly did not seem so many now, and his navel rose higher, still enclosed
between folds of skin. Between his legs hung a limp cocoon that seemed
smoother, free of the wrinkles that crisscrossed the rest of his body like
mosquito netting. He picked up his wrapper and tied it around his body,
knotting it at his waist. His nipples were like dark raisins nestled among the
sparse gray tufts of hair on his chest. He was still smiling as I quietly turned
and went back to the bedroom. I never smiled after we said the rosary back
home. None of us did.

PAPA-NNUKWU WAS BACK on the verandah after breakfast, sitting on the
stool, with Amaka settled on a plastic mat at his feet. She scrubbed his foot

gently with a pumice stone, soaked it in a plastic bowl of water, rubbed it
over with Vaseline, and then moved to the other foot. Papa-Nnukwu
complained that she would make his feet too tender, that even soft stones
would pierce his soles now because he never wore sandals in the village,
though Aunty Ifeoma made him wear them here. But he did not ask Amaka
to stop.
“I am going to paint him out here on the verandah, in the shade. I want
to catch the sunlight on his skin,” Amaka said, when Obiora joined them.
Aunty Ifeoma came out, dressed in a blue wrapper and blouse. She
was going to the market with Obiora, who she said figured out change
faster than a trader with a calculator. “Kambili, I want you to help me do the
orah leaves, so I can start the soup when I come back,” she said.
“Orah leaves?” I asked, swallowing.
“Yes. Don’t you know how to prepare orah?”
I shook my head. “No, Aunty.”
“Amaka will do it, then,” Aunty Ifeoma said. She unfolded and
refolded her wrapper around her waist, knotting it at her side.
“Why?” Amaka burst out. “Because rich people do not prepare orah in
their houses? Won’t she participate in eating the orah soup?”
Aunty Ifeoma’s eyes hardened—she was not looking at Amaka, she
was looking at me. “O ginidi, Kambili, have you no mouth? Talk back to
her!”
I watched a wilted African lily fall from its stalk in the garden. The
crotons rustled in the late morning breeze. “You don’t have to shout,
Amaka,” I said, finally. “I don’t know how to do the orah leaves, but you
can show me.” I did not know where the calm words had come from. I did
not want to look at Amaka, did not want to see her scowl, did not want to
prompt her to say something else to me, because I knew I could not keep
up. I thought I was imagining it when I heard the cackling, but then I looked
at Amaka—and sure enough, she was laughing.
“So your voice can be this loud, Kambili,” she said.
She showed me how to prepare the orah leaves. The slippery, light
green leaves had fibrous stalks that did not become tender from cooking
and so had to be carefully plucked out. I balanced the tray of vegetables on
my lap and set to work, plucking the stalks and putting the leaves in a bowl
at my feet. I was done by the time Aunty Ifeoma drove in, about an hour

later, and sank onto a stool, fanning herself with a newspaper. Sweat streaks
had washed away her pressed powder in parallel lines of darker-colored
skin down the sides of her face. Jaja and Obiora were bringing in the
foodstuffs from the car, and Aunty Ifeoma asked Jaja to place the bunch of
plantains on the verandah floor.
“Amaka, ka? Guess how much?” she asked.
Amaka stared at the bunch critically before she guessed an amount.
Aunty Ifeoma shook her head and said that the plantains had cost forty naira
more than what Amaka guessed.
“Hei! For this small thing?” Amaka shouted.
“The traders say it is hard to transport their food because there is no
fuel, so they add on the costs of transportation, o di egwu,” Aunty Ifeoma
said.
Amaka picked up the plantains and pressed each between her fingers,
as if she would figure out why they cost so much by doing that. She took
them inside just as Father Amadi drove in and parked in front of the flat.
His windscreen caught the sun and glittered. He bounded up the few stairs
to the verandah, holding his soutane up like a bride holding a wedding
dress. He greeted Papa-Nnukwu first, before hugging Aunty Ifeoma and
shaking hands with the boys. I extended my hand so that we could shake,
my lower lip starting to tremble.
“Kambili,” he said, holding my hand a little longer than the boys’.
“Are you going somewhere, Father?” Amaka asked, coming onto the
verandah. “You must be baking in that soutane.”
“I am going over to give some things to a friend of mine, the priest
who came back from Papua New Guinea. He returns next week.”
“Papua New Guinea. How did he say the place is, eh?” Amaka asked.
“He was telling a story of crossing a river by canoe, with crocodiles
right underneath. He said he is not sure which happened first, hearing the
teeth of the crocodiles snapping or discovering that he had wet his
trousers.”
“They had better not send you to a place like that,” Aunty Ifeoma said
with a laugh, still fanning herself and sipping from a glass of water.
“I don’t even want to think about your leaving, Father,” Amaka said.
“You still don’t have an idea where and when, okwia?”
“No. Sometime next year, perhaps.”

“Who is sending you?” Papa-Nnukwu asked, in his sudden way that
made me realize he had been following every word spoken in Igbo.
“Father Amadi belongs to a group of priests, ndi missionary, and they
go to different countries to convert people,” Amaka said. She hardly
peppered her speech with English words when she spoke to Papa-Nnukwu,
as the rest of us inadvertently did.
“Ezi okwu?” Papa-Nnukwu looked up, his milky eye on Father Amadi.
“Is that so? Our own sons now go to be missionaries in the white man’s
land?”
“We go to the white man’s land and the black man’s land, sir,” Father
Amadi said. “Any place that needs a priest.”
“It is good, my son. But you must never lie to them. Never teach them
to disregard their fathers.” Papa-Nnukwu looked away, shaking his head.
“Did you hear that, Father?” Amaka asked. “Don’t lie to those poor
ignorant souls.”
“It will be hard not to, but I will try,” Father Amadi said, in English.
His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
“You know, Father, it’s like making okpa,” Obiora said. “You mix the
cowpea flour and palm oil, then you steam-cook for hours. You think you
can ever get just the cowpea flour? Or just the palm oil?”
“What are you talking about?” Father Amadi asked.
“Religion and oppression,” Obiora said.
“You know there is a saying that it is not just the naked men in the
market who are mad?” Father Amadi asked. “That streak of madness has
returned and is disturbing you again, okwia?”
Obiora laughed, and so did Amaka, in that loud way it seemed only
Father Amadi could get out of her.
“Spoken like the true missionary priest, Father,” Amaka said. “When
people challenge you, label them mad.”
“See how your cousin sits quiet and watches?” Father Amadi asked,
gesturing to me. “She does not waste her energy in picking never-ending
arguments. But there is a lot going on in her mind, I can tell.”
I stared at him. Round, wet patches of sweat encircled his underarms,
darkening the white of his soutane. His eyes rested on my face and I looked
away. It was too disturbing, locking eyes with him; it made me forget who

was nearby, where I was sitting, what color my skirt was. “Kambili, you did
not want to come out with us the last time.”
“I…I…I was asleep.”
“Well, today, you’re coming with me. Just you,” Father Amadi said. “I
will come and pick you up on my way back from town. We’re going to the
stadium for football. You can play or watch.”
Amaka started to laugh. “Kambili looks frightened to death.” She was
looking at me, but it was not the look I was used to, the one where her eyes
held me guilty of things I did not know. It was a different, softer look.
“There is nothing to be frightened about, nne. You will have fun at the
stadium,” Aunty Ifeoma said, and I turned to stare blankly at her, too. Tiny
beads of sweat, like pimples, covered her nose. She seemed so happy, so at
peace, and I wondered how anybody around me could feel that way when
liquid fire was raging inside me, when fear was mingling with hope and
clutching itself around my ankles.
After Father Amadi left, Aunty Ifeoma said, “Go and get ready so you
don’t keep him waiting when he gets back. Shorts are best because even if
you don’t play, it will get hotter before the sun falls and most of the
spectator stands don’t have roofs.”
“Because they have spent ten years building that stadium. The money
has gone into peoples’ pockets,” Amaka muttered.
“I don’t have shorts, Aunty,” I said.
Aunty Ifeoma did not ask why, perhaps because she already knew. She
asked Amaka to lend me a pair of shorts. I expected Amaka to sneer, but
she gave me a pair of yellow shorts as if it were normal that I did not have
any. I took my time putting on the shorts, but I did not stand in front of the
mirror for too long, as Amaka did, because guilt would nibble at me. Vanity
was a sin. Jaja and I looked in the mirror just long enough to make sure our
buttons were done right.
I heard the Toyota drive up to the front of the flat awhile later. I took
Amaka’s lipstick from the top of the dresser and ran it over my lips. It
looked strange, not as glamorous as it did on Amaka; it did not even have
the same bronze shimmer. I wiped it off. My lips looked pale, a dour brown.
I ran the lipstick over my lips again, and my hands shook.
“Kambili! Father Amadi is horning outside for you,” Aunty Ifeoma
called. I wiped the lipstick away with the back of my hand and left the

room.

FATHER AMADI’S CAR smelled like him, a clean scent that made me think
of a clear azure sky. His shorts had seemed longer the last time I saw him in
them, well past his knees. But now they climbed up to expose a muscular
thigh sprinkled with dark hair. The space between us was too small, too
tight. I was always a penitent when I was close to a priest at confession. But
it was hard to feel penitent now, with Father Amadi’s cologne deep in my
lungs. I felt guilty instead because I could not focus on my sins, could not
think of anything except how near he was. “I sleep in the same room as my
grandfather. He is a heathen,” I blurted out.
He turned to me briefly, and before he looked away, I wondered if the
light in his eyes was amusement. “Why do you say that?”
“It is a sin.”
“Why is it a sin?”
I stared at him. I felt that he had missed a line in his script. “I don’t
know.”
“Your father told you that.”
I looked away, out the window. I would not implicate Papa, since
Father Amadi obviously disagreed.
“Jaja told me a little about your father the other day, Kambili.”
I bit my lower lip. What had Jaja said to him? What was wrong with
Jaja, anyway? Father Amadi said nothing else until we got to the stadium
and he quickly scanned the few people running on the tracks. His boys were
not here yet, so the football field was empty. We sat on the stairs, in one of
the two spectator stands that had a roof.
“Why don’t we play set ball before the boys come?” he asked.
“I don’t know how to play.”
“Do you play handball?”
“No.”
“What about volleyball?”
I looked at him and then away. I wondered if Amaka would ever paint
him, would ever capture the clay-smooth skin, the straight eyebrows, which
were slightly raised as he watched me. “I played volleyball in class one,” I
said. “But I stopped playing because I…I was not that good and nobody

liked to pick me.” I kept my eyes focused on the bleak, unpainted spectator
stands, abandoned for so long that tiny plants had started to push their green
heads through the cracks in the cement.
“Do you love Jesus?” Father Amadi asked, standing up.
I was startled. “Yes. Yes, I love Jesus.”
“Then show me. Try and catch me, show me you love Jesus.”
He had hardly finished speaking before he dashed off and I saw the
blue flash of his tank top. I did not stop to think; I stood up and ran after
him. The wind blew in my face, into my eyes, across my ears. Father
Amadi was like blue wind, elusive. I did not catch up until he stopped near
the football goal post. “So you don’t love Jesus,” he teased.
“You run too fast,” I said, panting.
“I will let you rest, and then you can have another chance to show me
you love the Lord.”
We ran four more times. I did not catch him. We flopped down on the
grass, finally, and he pushed a water bottle into my hand. “You have good
legs for running. You should practice more,” he said.
I looked away. I had never heard anything like that before. It seemed
too close, too intimate, to have his eyes on my legs, on any part of me.
“Don’t you know how to smile?” he asked.
“What?”
He reached across, tugged lightly at the sides of my lips. “Smile.”
I wanted to smile, but I could not. My lips and cheeks were frozen,
unthawed by the sweat running down the sides of my nose. I was too aware
that he was watching me.
“What is that reddish stain on your hand?” he asked.
I looked down at my hand, at the smudge of hastily wiped lipstick that
still clung to the sweaty back of my hands. I had not realized how much I
had put on. “It’s…a stain,” I said, feeling stupid.
“Lipstick?”
I nodded.
“Do you wear lipstick? Have you ever worn lipstick?”
“No,” I said. Then I felt the smile start to creep over my face,
stretching my lips and cheeks, an embarrassed and amused smile. He knew
I had tried to wear lipstick for the first time today. I smiled. I smiled again.

“Good evening, Father!” echoed all around, and eight boys descended
on us. They were all about my age, with shorts that had holes in them and
shirts washed so often I didn’t know what color they had originally been
and similar crusty spots from insect bites on their legs. Father Amadi took
his tank top off and dropped it on my lap before joining the boys on the
football field. 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
with me 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.
But I 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
it seemed 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
down his 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,
I helped 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 Papa-Nnukwu. 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.
“The key to my room. I would like to have it. Makana, because I
would like some privacy.”
Papa’s pupils seemed to dart around in the whites of his eyes. “What?
What do you want privacy for? To commit a sin against your own body? Is
that what you want to do, masturbate?”
“No,” Jaja said. He moved his hand and knocked his glass of water
over.
“See what has happened to my children?” Papa asked the ceiling. “See
how being with a heathen has changed them, has taught them evil?”
We finished dinner in silence. Afterward, Jaja followed Papa upstairs. I
sat with Mama in the living room, wondering why Jaja had asked for the
key. Of course Papa would never give it to him, he knew that, knew that
Papa would never let us lock our doors. For a moment, I wondered if Papa
was right, if being with Papa-Nnukwu had made Jaja evil, had made us evil.
“It feels different to be back, okwia?” Mama asked. She was looking
through samples of fabric, to pick out a shade for the new curtains. We
replaced the curtains every year, toward the end of harmattan. Kevin
brought samples for Mama to look at, and she picked some and showed
Papa, so he could make the final decision. Papa usually chose her favorite.
Dark beige last year. Sand beige the year before.
I wanted to tell Mama that it did feel different to be back, that our
living room had too much empty space, too much wasted marble floor that
gleamed from Sisi’s polishing and housed nothing. Our ceilings were too
high. Our furniture was lifeless: the glass tables did not shed twisted skin in

the harmattan, the leather sofas’ greeting was a clammy coldness, the
Persian rugs were too lush to have any feeling. But I said, “You polished the
étagère.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I stared at her eye. It appeared to be opening now; it must have been
swollen completely shut yesterday.
“Kambili!” Papa’s voice carried clearly from upstairs. I held my breath
and sat still. “Kambili!”
“Nne, go,” Mama said.
I went upstairs slowly. Papa was in the bathroom, with the door ajar. I
knocked on the open door and stood by, wondering why he had called me
when he was in the bathroom. “Come in,” he said. He was standing by the
tub. “Climb into the tub.”
I stared at Papa. Why was he asking me to climb into the tub? I looked
around the bathroom floor; there was no stick anywhere. Maybe he would
keep me in the bathroom and then go downstairs, out through the kitchen, to
break a stick off one of the trees in the backyard. When Jaja and I were
younger, from elementary two until about elementary five, he asked us to
get the stick ourselves. We always chose whistling pine because the
branches were malleable, not as painful as the stiffer branches from the
gmelina or the avocado. And Jaja soaked the sticks in cold water because he
said that made them less painful when they landed on your body. The older
we got, though, the smaller the branches we brought, until Papa started to
go out himself to get the stick.
“Climb into the tub,” Papa said again.
I stepped into the tub and stood looking at him. It didn’t seem that he
was going to get a stick, and I felt fear, stinging and raw, fill my bladder and
my ears. I did not know what he was going to do to me. It was easier when I
saw a stick, because I could rub my palms together and tighten the muscles
of my calves in preparation. He had never asked me to stand inside a tub.
Then I noticed the kettle on the floor, close to Papa’s feet, the green kettle
Sisi used to boil hot water for tea and garri, the one that whistled when the
water started to boil. Papa picked it up. “You knew your grandfather was
coming to Nsukka, did you not?” he asked in Igbo.

“Yes, Papa.”
“Did you pick up the phone and inform me of this, gbo?”
“No.”
“You knew you would be sleeping in the same house as a heathen?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“So you saw the sin clearly and you walked right into it?”
I nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Kambili, you are precious.” His voice quavered now, like someone
speaking at a funeral, choked with emotion. “You should strive for
perfection. You should not see sin and walk right into it.” He lowered the
kettle into the tub, tilted it toward my feet. He poured the hot water on my
feet, slowly, as if he were conducting an experiment and wanted to see what
would happen. He was crying now, tears streaming down his face. I saw the
moist steam before I saw the water. I watched the water leave the kettle,
flowing almost in slow motion in an arc to my feet. The pain of contact was
so pure, so scalding, I felt nothing for a second. And then I screamed.
“That is what you do to yourself when you walk into sin. You burn
your feet,” he said.
I wanted to say “Yes, Papa,” because he was right, but the burning on
my feet was climbing up, in swift courses of excruciating pain, to my head
and lips and eyes. Papa was holding me with one wide hand, pouring the
water carefully with the other. I did not know that the sobbing voice—“I’m
sorry! I’m sorry!”—was mine until the water stopped and I realized my
mouth was moving and the words were still coming out. Papa put the kettle
down, wiped at his eyes. I stood in the scalding tub; I was too scared to
move—the skin of my feet would peel off if I tried to step out of the tub.
Papa put his hands under my arms to carry me out, but I heard Mama
say, “Let me, please.” I did not realize that Mama had come into the
bathroom. Tears were running down her face. Her nose was running, too,
and I wondered if she would wipe it before it got to her mouth, before she
would have to taste it. She mixed salt with cold water and gently plastered
the gritty mixture onto my feet. She helped me out of the tub, made to carry
me on her back to my room, but I shook my head. She was too small. We
might both fall. Mama did not speak until we were in my room. “You
should take Panadol,” she said.

I nodded and let her give me the tablets, although I knew they would
do little for my feet, now throbbing to a steady, searing pulse. “Did you go
to Jaja’s room?” I asked, and Mama nodded. She did not tell me about him,
and I did not ask.
“The skin of my feet will be bloated tomorrow,” I said.
“Your feet will be healed in time for school,” Mama said.
After Mama left, I stared at the closed door, at the smooth surface, and
thought about the doors in Nsukka and their peeling blue paint. I thought
about Father Amadi’s musical voice, about the wide gap that showed
between Amaka’s teeth when she laughed, about Aunty Ifeoma stirring stew
at her kerosene stove. I thought about Obiora pushing his glasses up his
nose and Chima curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. I got up and hobbled
over to get the painting of Papa-Nnukwu from my bag. It was still in the
black wrapping. Even though it was in an obscure side pocket of my bag, I
was too scared to unwrap it. Papa would know, somehow. He would smell
the painting in his house. I ran my finger along the plastic wrapping, over
the slight ridges of paint that melded into the lean form of Papa-Nnukwu,
the relaxed fold of arms, the long legs stretched out in front of him.
I had just hobbled back to my bed when Papa opened the door and
came in. He knew. I wanted to shift and rearrange myself on the bed, as if
that would hide what I had just done. I wanted to search his eyes to know
what he knew, how he had found out about the painting. But I did not, could
not. Fear. I was familiar with fear, yet each time I felt it, it was never the
same as the other times, as though it came in different flavors and colors.
“Everything I do for you, I do for your own good,” Papa said. “You
know that?”
“Yes, Papa.” I still was not sure if he knew about the painting.
He sat on my bed and held my hand. “I committed a sin against my
own body once,” he said. “And the good father, the one I lived with while I
went to St. Gregory’s, came in and saw me. He asked me to boil water for
tea. He poured the water in a bowl and soaked my hands in it.” Papa was
looking right into my eyes. I did not know he had committed any sins, that
he could commit any sins. “I never sinned against my own body again. The
good father did that for my own good.” he said.
After Papa left, I did not think about his hands soaked in hot water for
tea, the skin peeling off, his face set in tight lines of pain. Instead I thought

about the painting of Papa-Nnukwu in my bag.

I DID NOT GET a chance to tell Jaja about the painting until the next day,
a Saturday, when he came into my room during study time. He wore thick
socks and placed his feet gingerly one after the other, as I did. But we did
not talk about our padded feet. After he felt the painting with his finger, he
said he had something to show me, too. We went downstairs to the kitchen.
It was wrapped in black cellophane paper, as well, and he had lodged it in
the refrigerator, beneath bottles of Fanta. When he saw my puzzled look, he
said they weren’t just sticks; they were stalks of purple hibiscus. He would
give them to the gardener. It was still harmattan and the earth was thirsty,
but Aunty Ifeoma said the stalks might take root and grow if they were
watered regularly, that hibiscuses didn’t like too much water, but they didn’t
like to be too dry, either.
Jaja’s eyes shone as he talked about the hibiscuses, as he held them out
so I could touch the cold, moist sticks. He had told Papa about them, yet he
quickly put them back into the fridge when we heard Papa coming.

LUNCH WAS YAM PORRIDGE, the smell wafting around the house even
before we went to the dining table. It smelled good—pieces of dried fish
drifting in yellow sauce alongside the greens and cubed yams. After
prayers, as Mama dished out the food, Papa said, “These pagan funerals are
expensive. One fetish group will ask for a cow, then a witch doctor will
demand a goat for some god of stone, then another cow for the hamlet and
another for the umuada. Nobody ever asks why the so-called gods don’t
ever eat the animals and instead greedy men share the meat among
themselves. The death of a person is just an excuse for heathens to feast.”
I wondered why Papa was saying this, what had prompted him. The
rest of us remained silent while Mama finished dishing out the food.
“I sent Ifeoma money for the funeral. I gave her all she needed,” Papa
said. After a pause, he added, “For nna anyi’s funeral.”
“Thanks be to God,” Mama said, and Jaja and I repeated her.
Sisi came in before we finished lunch to tell Papa that Ade Coker was
at the gate with another man. Adamu had asked them to wait at the gate; he
always did that when people visited during weekend meal times. I expected

Papa to ask them to wait on the patio until we finished lunch, but he told
Sisi to have Adamu let them in and to open the front door. He said the
prayer after meals while we still had food on our plates and then asked us to
keep eating, he would be right back.
The guests came in and sat down in the living room. I could not see
them from the dining table, but while I ate, I tried hard to make out what
they were saying. I knew Jaja was listening, too. I saw the way his head was
slightly tilted, his eyes focused on the empty space in front of him. They
were talking in low tones, but it was easy to make out the name Nwankiti
Ogechi, especially when Ade Coker spoke, because he did not lower his
voice as much as Papa and the other man did.
He was saying that Big Oga’s assistant—Ade Coker referred to the
head of state as Big Oga even in his editorials—had called to say that Big
Oga was willing to give him an exclusive interview. “But they want me to
cancel the Nwankiti Ogechi story. Imagine the stupid man, he said they
knew some useless people had told me stories that I planned to use in my
piece and that the stories were lies…”
I heard Papa interrupt in a low voice, and the other man added
something afterward, something about the Big People in Abuja not wanting
such a story out now that the Commonwealth Nations were meeting.
“You know what this means? My sources were right. They have really
wasted Nwankiti Ogechi,” Ade Coker said. “Why didn’t they care when I
did the last story about him? Why do they care now?”
I knew what story Ade was referring to, since it was in the Standard
about six weeks ago, right around the time Nwankiti Ogechi first
disappeared without a trace. I remembered the huge black question mark
above the caption “Where is Nwankiti?” And I remembered that the article
was full of worried quotes from his family and colleagues. It was nothing
like the first Standard feature I’d read about him, titled “A Saint among
Us,” which had focused on his activism, on his pro-democracy rallies that
filled the stadium at Surulere.
“I am telling Ade we should wait, sir,” the other guest was saying. “Let
him do the interview with Big Oga. We can do the Nwankiti Ogechi story
later.”
“No way!” Ade burst out, and if I had not known that slightly shrill
voice, it would have been hard for me to imagine the round, laughing Ade

sounding that way, so angry. “They don’t want Nwankiti Ogechi to become
an issue now. Simple! And you know what it means, it means they have
wasted him! Which one is for Big Oga to try and bribe me with an
interview? I ask you, eh, which one is that?”
Papa cut him short then, but I could not hear much of what he said,
because he spoke in low, soothing tones, as though he were calming Ade
down. The next thing I heard him say was, “Come, let us go to my study.
My children are eating.”
They walked past us on their way upstairs. Ade smiled as he greeted
us, but it was a strained smile. “Can I come and finish the food for you?” he
teased me, making a mock attempt to swoop down on my food.
After lunch, as I sat in my room, studying, I tried hard to hear what
Papa and Ade Coker were saying in the study. But I couldn’t. Jaja walked
past the study a few times, but when I looked at him, he shook his head—he
could hear nothing through the closed door, either.
It was that evening, before dinner, that the government agents came,
the men in black who yanked hibiscuses off as they left, the men Jaja said
had come to bribe Papa with a truckful of dollars, the men Papa asked to get
out of our house.

WHEN WE GOT the next edition of the Standard, I knew it would have
Nwankiti Ogechi on its cover. The story was detailed, angry, full of quotes
from someone called The Source. Soldiers shot Nwankiti Ogechi in a bush
in Minna. And then they poured acid on his body to melt his flesh off his
bones, to kill him even when he was already dead.
During family time, while Papa and I played chess, Papa winning, we
heard on the radio that Nigeria had been suspended from the
Commonwealth because of the murder, that Canada and Holland were
recalling their ambassadors in protest. The newscaster read a small portion
of the press release from the Canadian government, which referred to
Nwankiti Ogechi as “a man of honor.”
Papa looked up from the board and said, “It was coming to this. I knew
it would come to this.”
Some men arrived just after we had dinner, and I heard Sisi tell Papa
that they said they were from the Democratic Coalition. They stayed on the

patio with Papa, and even though I tried to, I could not hear their
conversation. The next day, more guests came during dinner. And even
more the day after. They all told Papa to be careful. Stop going to work in
your official car. Don’t go to public places. Remember the bomb blast at the
airport when a civil rights lawyer was traveling. Remember the one at the
stadium during the pro-democracy meeting. Lock your doors. Remember
the man shot in his bedroom by men wearing black masks.
Mama told me and Jaja. She looked scared when she talked, and I
wanted to pat her shoulder and tell her Papa would be fine. I knew he and
Ade Coker worked with truth, and I knew he would be fine.
“Do you think Godless men have any sense?” Papa asked every night
at dinner, often after a long stretch of silence. He seemed to drink a lot of
water at dinner, and I would watch him, wondering if his hands were really
shaking or if I was imagining it.
Jaja and I did not talk about the many people who came to the house. I
wanted to talk about it, but Jaja looked away when I brought it up with my
eyes, and he changed the subject when I spoke of it. The only time I heard
him say anything about it was when Aunty Ifeoma called to find out how
Papa was doing, because she had heard about the furor the Standard story
had caused. Papa was not home, and so she spoke to Mama. Afterward,
Mama gave the phone to Jaja.
“Aunty, they won’t touch Papa,” I heard Jaja say. “They know he has
many foreign connections.”
As I listened to Jaja go on to tell Aunty Ifeoma that the gardener had
planted the hibiscus stalks, but that it was still too early to tell if they would
live, I wondered why he had never said that to me about Papa.
When I took the phone, Aunty Ifeoma sounded close by and loud.
After our greetings, I took a deep breath and said, “Greet Father Amadi.”
“He asks about you and Jaja all the time,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Hold
on, nne, Amaka is here.”
“Kambili, ke kwanu?” Amaka sounded different on the phone. Breezy.
Less likely to start an argument. Less likely to sneer—or maybe that was
simply because I would not see the sneer.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you for the painting.”
“I thought you might want to keep it.” Amaka’s voice was still hoarse
when she spoke of Papa-Nnukwu.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I had not known that Amaka even thought
of me, even knew what I wanted, even knew that I wanted.
“You know Papa-Nnukwu’s akwam ozu is next week?”
“Yes.”
“We will wear white. Black is too depressing, especially that shade
people wear to mourn, like burnt wood. I will lead the dance of the
grandchildren.” She sounded proud.
“He will rest in peace,” I said. I wondered if she could tell that I, too,
wanted to wear white, to join the funeral dance of the grandchildren.
“Yes, he will.” There was a pause. “Thanks to Uncle Eugene.”
I didn’t know what to say. I felt as if I were standing on a floor where a
child had spilled talcum powder and I would have to walk carefully so as
not to slip and fall.
“Papa-Nnukwu really worried about having a proper funeral,” Amaka
said. “Now I know he’ll rest in peace. Uncle Eugene gave Mom so much
money she’s buying seven cows for the funeral!”
“That’s nice.” A mumble.
“I hope you and Jaja can come for Easter. The apparitions are still
going on, so maybe we can go on pilgrimage to Aokpe this time, if that will
make Uncle Eugene say yes. And I am doing my confirmation on Easter
Sunday and I want you and Jaja to be there.”
“I want to go, too,” I said, smiling, because the words I had just said,
the whole conversation with Amaka, were dreamlike. I thought about my
own confirmation, last year at St. Agnes. Papa had bought my white lace
dress and a soft, layered veil, which the women in Mama’s prayer group
touched, crowding around me after Mass. The bishop had trouble lifting the
veil from my face to make the sign of the cross on my forehead and say,
“Ruth, be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Ruth. Papa had chosen
my confirmation name.
“Have you picked a confirmation name?” I asked.
“No,” Amaka said. “Ngwanu, Mom wants to remind Aunty Beatrice of
something.”
“Greet Chima and Obiora,” I said, before I handed the phone to Mama.
Back in my room, I stared at my textbook and wondered if Father
Amadi had really asked about us or if Aunty Ifeoma had said so out of
courtesy, so it would be that he remembered us, just as we remembered

him. But Aunty Ifeoma was not like that. She would not say it if he had not
asked. I wondered if he had asked about us, Jaja and me at the same time,
like asking about two things that went together. Corn and ube. Rice and
stew. Yam and oil. Or if he had separated us, asked about me and then about
Jaja. When I heard Papa come home from work, I roused myself and looked
at my book. I had been doodling on a sheet of paper, stick figures, and
“Father Amadi” written over and over again. I tore up the piece of paper.
I tore up many more in the following weeks. They all had “Father
Amadi” written over and over again. On some I tried to capture his voice,
using the symbols of music. On others I formed the letters of his name
using Roman numerals. I did not need to write his name down to see him,
though. I recognized a flash of his gait, that loping, confident stride, in the
gardener’s. I saw his lean, muscular build in Kevin and, when school
resumed, even a flash of his smile in Mother Lucy. I joined the group of
girls on the volleyball field on the second day of school. I did not hear the
whispers of “backyard snob” or the ridiculing laughter. I did not notice the
amused pinches they gave one another. I stood waiting with my hands
clasped until I was picked. I saw only Father Amadi’s clay-colored face and
heard only “You have good legs for running.”

It rained heavily the day Ade Coker died, a strange, furious rain
in the middle of the parched harmattan. Ade Coker was at breakfast with his
family when a courier delivered a package to him. His daughter, in her
primary school uniform, was sitting across the table from him. The baby
was nearby, in a high chair. His wife was spooning Cerelac into the baby’s
mouth. Ade Coker was blown up when he opened the package—a package
everybody would have known was from the Head of State even if his wife
Yewande had not said that Ade Coker looked at the envelope and said “It
has the State House seal” before he opened it.
When Jaja and I came home from school, we were almost drenched by
the walk from the car to the front door; the rain was so heavy it had formed
a small pool beside the hibiscuses. My feet itched inside my wet leather
sandals. Papa was crumpled on a sofa in the living room, sobbing. He
seemed so small. Papa who was so tall that he sometimes lowered his head

to get through doorways, that his tailor always used extra fabric to sew his
trousers. Now he seemed small; he looked like a rumpled roll of fabric.
“I should have made Ade hold that story” Papa was saying. “I should
have protected him. I should have made him stop that story.”
Mama held him close to her, cradling his face on her chest. “No,” she
said. “O zugo. Don’t.”
Jaja and I stood watching. I thought about Ade Coker’s glasses, I
imagined the thick, bluish lenses shattering, the white frames melting into
sticky goo. Later, after Mama told us what had happened, how it had
happened, Jaja said, “It was God’s will, Papa,” and Papa smiled at Jaja and
gently patted his back.
Papa organized Ade Coker’s funeral; he set up a trust for Yewande
Coker and the children, bought them a new house. He paid the Standard
staff huge bonuses and asked them all to take a long leave. Hollows
appeared under his eyes during those weeks, as if someone had suctioned
the delicate flesh, leaving his eyes sunken in.
My nightmares started then, nightmares in which I saw Ade Coker’s
charred remains spattered on his dining table, on his daughter’s school
uniform, on his baby’s cereal bowl, on his plate of eggs. In some of the
nightmares, I was the daughter and the charred remains became Papa’s.

WEEKS AFTER ADE COKER DIED, the hollows were still carved under
Papa’s eyes, and there was a slowness in his movements, as though his legs
were too heavy to lift, his hands too heavy to swing. He took longer to reply
when spoken to, to chew his food, even to find the right Bible passages to
read. But he prayed a lot more, and some nights when I woke up to pee, I
heard him shouting from the balcony overlooking the front yard. Even
though I sat on the toilet seat and listened, I never could make sense of what
he was saying. When I told Jaja about this, he shrugged and said that Papa
must have been speaking in tongues, although we both knew that Papa did
not approve of people speaking in tongues because it was what the fake
pastors at those mushroom Pentecostal churches did.
Mama told Jaja and me often to remember to hug Papa tighter, to let
him know we were there, because he was under so much pressure. Soldiers
had gone to one of the factories, carrying dead rats in a carton, and then

closed the factory down, saying the rats had been found there and could
spread disease through the wafers and biscuits. Papa no longer went to the
other factories as often as he used to. Some days, Father Benedict came
before Jaja and I left for school, and was still in Papa’s study when we came
home. Mama said they were saying special novenas. Papa never came out
to make sure Jaja and I were following our schedules on such days, and so
Jaja came into my room to talk, or just to sit on my bed while I studied,
before going to his room.
It was on one of those days that Jaja came into my room, shut the door,
and asked, “Can I see the painting of Papa-Nnukwu?”
My eyes lingered on the door. I never looked at the painting when
Papa was at home.
“He is with Father Benedict,” Jaja said. “He will not come in.”
I took the painting out of the bag and unwrapped it. Jaja stared at it,
running his deformed finger over the paint, the finger that had very little
feeling.
“I have Papa-Nnukwu’s arms,” Jaja said. “Can you see? I have his
arms.” He sounded like someone in a trance, as if he had forgotten where he
was and who he was. As if he had forgotten that his finger had little feeling
in it.
I did not tell Jaja to stop, or point out that it was his deformed finger
that he was running over the painting. I did not put the painting right back.
Instead I moved closer to Jaja and we stared at the painting, silently, for a
very long time. A long enough time for Father Benedict to leave. I knew
Papa would come in to say good night, to kiss my forehead. I knew he
would be wearing his wine-red pajamas that lent a slightly red shimmer to
his eyes. I knew Jaja would not have enough time to slip the painting back
in the bag, and that Papa would take one look at it and his eyes would
narrow, his cheeks would bulge out like unripe udala fruit, his mouth would
spurt Igbo words.
And that was what happened. Perhaps it was what we wanted to
happen, Jaja and I, without being aware of it. Perhaps we all changed after
Nsukka—even Papa—and things were destined to not be the same, to not
be in their original order.
“What is that? Have you all converted to heathen ways? What are you
doing with that painting? Where did you get it?” Papa asked.

“O nkem. It’s mine,” Jaja said. He wrapped the painting around his
chest with his arms.
“It’s mine,” I said.
Papa swayed slightly, from side to side, like a person about to fall at
the feet of a charismatic pastor after the laying on of hands. Papa did not
sway often. His swaying was like shaking a bottle of Coke that burst into
violent foam when you opened it.
“Who brought that painting into this house?”
“Me,” I said.
“Me,” Jaja said.
If only Jaja would look at me, I would ask him not to blame himself.
Papa snatched the painting from Jaja. His hands moved swiftly, working
together. The painting was gone. It already represented something lost,
something I had never had, would never have. Now even that reminder was
gone, and at Papa’s feet lay pieces of paper streaked with earth-tone colors.
The pieces were very small, very precise. I suddenly and maniacally
imagined Papa-Nnukwu’s body being cut in pieces that small and stored in
a fridge.
“No!” I shrieked. I dashed to the pieces on the floor as if to save them,
as if saving them would mean saving Papa-Nnukwu. I sank to the floor, lay
on the pieces of paper.
“What has gotten into you?” Papa asked. “What is wrong with you?”
I lay on the floor, curled tight like the picture of a child in the uterus in
my Integrated Science for Junior Secondary Schools.
“Get up! Get away from that painting!”
I lay there, did nothing.
“Get up!” Papa said again. I still did not move. He started to kick me.
The metal buckles on his slippers stung like bites from giant mosquitoes.
He talked nonstop, out of control, in a mix of Igbo and English, like soft
meat and thorny bones. Godlessness. Heathen worship. Hellfire. The
kicking increased in tempo, and I thought of Amaka’s music, her culturally
conscious music that sometimes started off with a calm saxophone and then
whirled into lusty singing. I curled around myself tighter, around the pieces
of the painting; they were soft, feathery. They still had the metallic smell of
Amaka’s paint palette. The stinging was raw now, even more like bites,
because the metal landed on open skin on my side, my back, my legs.

Kicking. Kicking. Kicking. Perhaps it was a belt now because the metal
buckle seemed too heavy. Because I could hear a swoosh in the air. A low
voice was saying, “Please, biko, please.” More stings. More slaps. A salty
wetness warmed my mouth. I closed my eyes and slipped away into quiet.

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, I knew at once that I was not in my bed. The
mattress was firmer than mine. I made to get up, but pain shot through my
whole body in exquisite little packets. I collapsed back.
“Nne, Kambili. Thank God!” Mama stood up and pressed her hand to
my forehead, then her face to mine. “Thank God. Thank God you are
awake.”
Her face felt clammy with tears. Her touch was light, yet it sent
needles of pain all over me, starting from my head. It was like the hot water
Papa had poured on my feet, except now it was my entire body that burned.
Each movement was too painful to even think about.
“My whole body is on fire,” I said.
“Shhh,” she said. “Just rest. Thank God you are awake.”
I did not want to be awake. I did not want to feel the breathing pain at
my side. I did not want to feel the heavy hammer knocking in my head.
Even taking a breath was agony. A doctor in white was in the room, at the
foot of my bed. I knew that voice; he was a lector in church. He was
speaking slowly and precisely, the way he did when he read the first and
second readings, yet I could not hear it all. Broken rib. Heal nicely. Internal
bleeding. He came close and slowly lifted my shirtsleeve. Injections had
always scared me—whenever I had malaria, I prayed I would need to take
Novalgin tablets instead of chloroquine injections. But now the prick of a
needle was nothing. I would take injections every day over the pain in my
body. Papa’s face was close to mine. It seemed so close that his nose almost
brushed mine, and yet I could tell that his eyes were soft, that he was
speaking and crying at the same time. “My precious daughter. Nothing will
happen to you. My precious daughter.” I was not sure if it was a dream. I
closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, Father Benedict stood above me. He was
making the sign of the cross on my feet with oil; the oil smelled like onions,

and even his light touch hurt. Papa was nearby. He, too, was muttering
prayers, his hands resting gently on my side. I closed my eyes.
“It does not mean anything. They give extreme unction to anyone who
is seriously ill,” Mama whispered, when Papa and Father Benedict left.
I stared at the movement of her lips. I was not seriously ill. She knew
that. Why was she saying I was seriously ill? Why was I here in St. Agnes
hospital?
“Mama, call Aunty Ifeoma,” I said.
Mama looked away. “Nne, you have to rest.”
“Call Aunty Ifeoma. Please.”
Mama reached out to hold my hand. Her face was puffy from crying,
and her lips were cracked, with bits of discolored skin peeling off. I wished
I could get up and hug her, and yet I wanted to push her away, to shove her
so hard that she would topple over the chair.

FATHER AMADI’S FACE was looking down at me when I opened my eyes.
I was dreaming it, imagining it, and yet I wished that it did not hurt so much
to smile, so that I could.
“At first they could not find a vein, and I was so scared.” It was
Mama’s voice, real and next to me. I was not dreaming.
“Kambili. Kambili. Are you awake?” Father Amadi’s voice was
deeper, less melodious than in my dreams.
“Nne, Kambili, nne.” It was Aunty Ifeoma’s voice; her face appeared
next to Father Amadi’s. She had held her braided hair up, in a huge bun that
looked like a raffia basket balanced on her head. I tried to smile. I felt
woozy. Something was slipping out of me, slipping away, taking my
strength and my sanity, and I could not stop it.
“The medication knocks her out,” Mama said.
“Nne, your cousins send greetings. They would have come, but they
are in school. Father Amadi is here with me. Nne…” Aunty Ifeoma
clutched my hand, and I winced, pulling it away. Even the effort to pull it
away hurt. I wanted to keep my eyes open, wanted to see Father Amadi, to
smell his cologne, to hear his voice, but my eyelids were slipping shut.
“This cannot go on, nwunye m,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “When a house is
on fire, you run out before the roof collapses on your head.”

“It has never happened like this before. He has never punished her like
this before,” Mama said.
“Kambili will come to Nsukka when she leaves the hospital.”
“Eugene will not agree.”
“I will tell him. Our father is dead, so there is no threatening heathen
in my house. I want Kambili and Jaja to stay with us, at least until Easter.
Pack your own things and come to Nsukka. It will be easier for you to leave
when they are not there.”
“It has never happened like this before.”
“Do you not hear what I have said, gbo?” Aunty Ifeoma said, raising
her voice.
“I hear you.”
The voices grew too distant, as if Mama and Aunty Ifeoma were on a
boat moving quickly to sea and the waves had swallowed their voices.
Before I lost their voices, I wondered where Father Amadi had gone. I
opened my eyes hours later. It was dark, and the light bulbs were off. In the
glimmer of light from the hallway that streamed underneath the closed door,
I could see the crucifix on the wall and Mama’s figure on a chair at the foot
of my bed.
“Kedu? I will be here all night. Sleep. Rest,” Mama said. She got up
and sat on my bed. She caressed my pillow; I knew she was afraid to touch
me and cause me pain. “Your father has been by your bedside every night
these past three days. He has not slept a wink.”
It was hard to turn my head, but I did it and looked away.

MY PRIVATE TUTOR came the following week. Mama said Papa had
interviewed ten people before he picked her. She was a young Reverend
Sister and had not yet made her final profession. The beads of the rosary,
which were twisted around the waist of her sky-colored habit, rustled as she
moved. Her wispy blond hair peeked from beneath her scarf. When she held
my hand and said, “Kee ka ime?” I was stunned. I had never heard a white
person speak Igbo, and so well. She spoke softly in English when we had
lessons and in Igbo, although not often, when we didn’t. She created her
own silence, sitting in it and fingering her rosary while I read
comprehension passages. But she knew a lot of things; I saw it in the pools

of her hazel eyes. She knew, for example, that I could move more body
parts than I told the doctor, although she said nothing. Even the hot pain in
my side had become lukewarm, the throbbing in my head had lessened. But
I told the doctor it was as bad as before and I screamed when he tried to feel
my side. I did not want to leave the hospital. I did not want to go home.
I took my exams on my hospital bed while Mother Lucy, who brought
the papers herself, waited on a chair next to Mama. She gave me extra time
for each exam, but I was finished long before the time was up. She brought
my report card a few days later. I came first. Mama did not sing her Igbo
praise songs; she only said, “Thanks be to God.”
My class girls visited me that afternoon, their eyes wide with awed
admiration. They had heard I had survived an accident. They hoped I would
come back with a cast that they could all scribble their signatures on.
Chinwe Jideze brought me a big card that read “Get well soon to someone
special,” and she sat by my bed and talked to me, in confidential whispers,
as if we had always been friends. She even showed me her report card—she
had come second. Before they left, Ezinne asked, “You will stop running
away after school, now, won’t you?”
Mama told me that evening that I would be discharged in two days.
But I would not be going home, I would be going to Nsukka for a week,
and Jaja would go with me. She did not know how Aunty Ifeoma had
convinced Papa, but he had agreed that Nsukka air would be good for me,
for my recuperation.

Rain splashed across the floor of the verandah, even though the
sun blazed and I had to narrow my eyes to look out the door of Aunty
Ifeoma’s living room. Mama used to tell Jaja and me that God was
undecided about what to send, rain or sun. We would sit in our rooms and
look out at the raindrops glinting with sunlight, waiting for God to decide.
“Kambili, do you want a mango?” Obiora asked from behind me.
He had wanted to help me into the flat when we arrived earlier in the
afternoon, and Chima had insisted on carrying my bag. It was as if they
feared my illness lingered somewhere within and would pounce out if I
exerted myself. Aunty Ifeoma had told them mine was a serious illness, that
I had nearly died.

“I will eat one later,” I said, turning.
Obiora was pounding a yellow mango against the living room wall. He
would do that until the inside became a soft pulp. Then he would bite a tiny
hole in one end of the fruit and suck it until the seed wobbled alone inside
the skin, like a person in oversize clothing. Amaka and Aunty Ifeoma were
eating mangoes too, but with knives, slicing the firm orange flesh off the
seed.
I went out to the verandah and stood by the wet metal railings,
watching the rain thin to a drizzle and then stop. God had decided on
sunlight. There was the smell of freshness in the air, that edible scent the
baked soil gave out at the first touch of rain. I imagined going into the
garden, where Jaja was on his knees, digging out a clump of mud with my
fingers and eating it.
“Aku na-efe! Aku is flying!” a child in the flat upstairs shouted.
The air was filling with flapping, water-colored wings. Children ran
out of the flats with folded newspapers and empty Bournvita tins. They hit
the flying aku down with the newspapers and then bent to pick them up and
put them in the tins. Some children simply ran around, swiping at the aku
just for the sake of it. Others squatted down to watch the ones that had lost
wings crawl on the ground, to follow them as they held on to one another
and moved like a black string, a mobile necklace.
“Interesting how people will eat aku. But ask them to eat the wingless
termites and that’s another thing. Yet the wingless ones are just a phase or
two away from aku” Obiora said.
Aunty Ifeoma laughed. “Look at you, Obiora. A few years ago, you
were always first to run after them.”
“Besides, you should not speak of children with such contempt,”
Amaka teased. “After all, they are your own kind.”
“I was never a child,” Obiora said, heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” Amaka asked. “To chase aku?”
“I’m not going to run after those flying termites, I am just going to
look,” Obiora said. “To observe.”
Amaka laughed, and Aunty Ifeoma echoed her.
“Can I go, Mom?” Chima asked. He was already heading for the door.
“Yes. But you know we will not fry them.”

“I will give the ones I catch to Ugochukwu. They fry aku in their
house,” Chima said.
“Watch that they do not fly into your ears, inugo? Or they will make
you go deaf!” Aunty Ifeoma called as Chima dashed outside.
Aunty Ifeoma put on her slippers and went upstairs to talk to a
neighbor. I was left alone with Amaka, standing side by side next to the
railings. She moved forward to lean on the railings, her shoulder brushing
mine. The old discomfort was gone.
“You have become Father Amadi’s sweetheart,” she said. Her tone was
the same light tone she had used with Obiora. She could not possibly know
how painfully my heart lurched. “He was really worried when you were
sick. He talked about you so much. And, amam, it wasn’t just priestly
concern.”
“What did he say?”
Amaka turned to study my eager face. “You have a crush on him, don’t
you?”
“Crush” was mild. It did not come close to what I felt, how I felt, but I
said, “Yes.”
“Like every other girl on campus.”
I tightened my grip on the railings. I knew Amaka would not tell me
more unless I asked. She wanted me to speak out more, after all. “What do
you mean?” I asked.
“Oh, all the girls in church have crushes on him. Even some of the
married women. People have crushes on priests all the time, you know. It’s
exciting to have to deal with God as a rival.” Amaka ran her hand over the
railings, smearing the water droplets. “You’re different. I’ve never heard
him talk about anyone like that. He said you never laugh. How shy you are
although he knows there’s a lot going on in your head. He insisted on
driving Mom to Enugu to see you. I told him he sounded like a person
whose wife was sick.”
“I was happy that he came to the hospital,” I said. It felt easy saying
that, letting the words roll off my tongue. Amaka’s eyes still bored into me.
“It was Uncle Eugene who did that to you, okwia?” she asked.
I let go of the railings, suddenly needing to ease myself. Nobody had
asked, not even the doctor at the hospital or Father Benedict. I did not know

what Papa had told them. Or if he had even told them anything. “Did Aunty
Ifeoma tell you?” I asked.
“No, but I guessed so.”
“Yes. It was him,” I said, and then headed for the toilet. I did not turn
to see Amaka’s reaction.

THE POWER WENT OFF that evening, just before the sun fell. The
refrigerator shook and shivered and then fell silent. I did not notice how
loud its nonstop hum was until it stopped. Obiora brought the kerosene
lamps out to the verandah and we sat around them, swatting at the tiny
insects that blindly followed the yellow light and bumped against the glass
bulbs. Father Amadi came later in the evening, with roast corn and ube
wrapped in old newspapers.
“Father, you are the best! Just what I was thinking about, corn and
ube,” Amaka said.
“I brought this on the condition that you will not raise any arguments
today,” Father Amadi said. “I just want to see how Kambili is doing.”
Amaka laughed and took the package inside to get a plate.
“It’s good to see you are yourself again,” Father Amadi said, looking
me over, as if to see if I was all there. I smiled. He motioned for me to stand
up for a hug. His body touching mine was tense and delicious. I backed
away. I wished that Chima and Jaja and Obiora and Aunty Ifeoma and
Amaka would all disappear for a while. I wished I were alone with him. I
wished I could tell him how warm I felt that he was here, how my favorite
color was now the same fired-clay shade of his skin.
A neighbor knocked on the door and came in with a plastic container
of aku, anara leaves, and red peppers. Aunty Ifeoma said she did not think I
should eat any because it might disturb my stomach. I watched Obiora
flatten an anara leaf on his palm. He sprinkled the aku, fried to twisted
crisps, and the peppers on the leaf and then rolled it up. Some of them
slipped out as he stuffed the rolled leaf in his mouth.
“Our people say that after aku flies, it will still fall to the toad,” Father
Amadi said. He dipped a hand into the bowl and threw a few into his
mouth. “When I was a child, I loved chasing aku. It was just play, though,

because if you really wanted to catch them, you waited till evening, when
they all lost their wings and fell down.” He sounded nostalgic.
I closed my eyes and let his voice caress me, let myself imagine him as
a child, before his shoulders grew square, chasing aku outside, over soil
softened by new rains.

AUNTY IFEOMA SAID I would not help fetch water just yet, until she was
sure I was strong enough. So I woke up after everyone else, when the sun’s
rays streamed steadily into the room, making the mirror glitter. Amaka was
standing at the living room window when I came out. I went over and stood
by her. She was looking at the verandah, where Aunty Ifeoma sat on a stool,
talking. The woman seated next to Aunty Ifeoma had piercing academic
eyes and humorless lips and wore no makeup.
“We cannot sit back and let it happen, mba. Where else have you heard
of such a thing as a sole administrator in a university?” Aunty Ifeoma said,
leaning forward on the stool. Tiny cracks appeared in her bronze lipstick
when she pursed her lips. “A governing council votes for a vice chancellor.
That is the way it has worked since this university was built, that is the way
it is supposed to work, oburia?”
The woman looked off into the distance, nodding continuously in the
way that people do when searching for the right words to use. When she
finally spoke, she did so slowly, like someone addressing a stubborn child.
“They said there is a list circulating, Ifeoma, of lecturers who are disloyal to
the university. They said they might be fired. They said your name is on it.”
“I am not paid to be loyal. When I speak the truth, it becomes
disloyalty.”
“Ifeoma, do you think you are the only one who knows the truth? Do
you think we do not all know the truth, eh? But, gwakenem, will the truth
feed your children? Will the truth pay their school fees and buy their
clothes?”
“When do we speak out, eh? When soldiers are appointed lecturers and
students attend lectures with guns to their heads? When do we speak out?”
Aunty Ifeoma’s voice was raised. But the blaze in her eyes was not focused
on the woman; she was angry at something that was bigger than the woman
before her.

The woman got up. She smoothed her yellow-and-blue abada skirt that
barely let her brown slippers show. “We should go. What time is your
lecture?”
“Two.”
“Do you have fuel?”
“Ebekwanu? No.”
“Let me drop you. I have a little fuel.”
I watched Aunty Ifeoma and the woman walk slowly to the door, as
though weighed down by both what they had said and what they had not
said. Amaka waited for Aunty Ifeoma to shut the door behind them before
she left the window and sat down on a chair.
“Mom said you should remember to take your painkiller, Kambili,”
she said.
“What was Aunty Ifeoma talking about with her friend?” I asked. I
knew I would not have asked before. I would have wondered about it, but I
would not have asked.
“The sole administrator,” Amaka said, shortly, as if I would
immediately understand all that they had been talking about. She was
running her hand down the length of the cane chair, over and over.
“The university’s equivalent of a head of state,” Obiora said. “The
university becomes a microcosm of the country.” I had not realized that he
was there, reading a book on the living room floor. I had never heard
anyone use the word microcosm.
“They are telling Mom to shut up,” Amaka said. “Shut up if you do not
want to lose your job because you can be fired fiam, just like that.” Amaka
snapped her fingers to show how fast Aunty Ifeoma could be fired.
“They should fire her, eh, so we can go to America,” Obiora said.
“Mechie onu,” Amaka said. Shut up.
“America?” I looked from Amaka to Obiora.
“Aunty Phillipa is asking Mom to come over. At least people there get
paid when they are supposed to,” Amaka said, bitterly, as though she were
accusing someone of something.
“And Mom will have her work recognized in America, without any
nonsense politics,” Obiora said, nodding, agreeing with himself in case
nobody else did.

“Did Mom tell you she is going anywhere, gbo?” Amaka jabbed the
chair now, with fast motions.
“Do you know how long they have been sitting on her file?” Obiora
asked. “She should have been senior lecturer years ago.”
“Aunty Ifeoma told you that?” I asked, stupidly, not even sure what I
meant, because I could think of nothing else to say, because I could no
longer imagine life without Aunty Ifeoma’s family, without Nsukka.
Neither Obiora nor Amaka responded. They were glaring at each other
silently, and I felt that they had not really been talking to me. I went outside
and stood by the verandah railings. It had rained all night. Jaja was kneeling
in the garden, weeding. He did not have to water anymore because the sky
did it. Anthills had risen in the newly softened red soil in the yard, like
miniature castles. I took a deep breath and held it, to savor the smell of
green leaves washed clean by rain, the way I imagined a smoker would do
to savor the last of a cigarette. The allamanda bushes bordering the garden
bloomed heavily with yellow, cylindrical flowers. Chima was pulling the
flowers down and sticking his fingers in them, one after the other. I watched
as he examined flower after flower, looking for a suitable small bloom that
would fit onto his pinky.

THAT EVENING, FATHER AMADI stopped by on his way to the stadium. He
wanted us all to go with him. He was coaching some boys from Ugwu
Agidi for the local government high-jump championships. Obiora had
borrowed a video game from the flat upstairs, and the boys were clustered
in front of the TV in the living room. They didn’t want to go to the stadium
because they would have to return the game soon.
Amaka laughed when Father Amadi asked her to come. “Don’t try to
be nice, Father, you know you would rather be alone with your sweetheart,”
she said. And Father Amadi smiled and said nothing.
I went alone with him. My mouth felt tight from embarrassment as he
drove us to the stadium. I was grateful that he did not say anything about
Amaka’s statement, that he talked about the sweet-smelling rains instead
and sang along with the robust Igbo choruses coming from his cassette
player. The boys from Ugwu Agidi were already there when we got to the
stadium. They were taller, older versions of the boys I had seen the last

time; their hole-ridden shorts were just as worn and their faded shirts just as
threadbare. Father Amadi raised his voice—it lost most of its music when
he did—as he gave encouragement and pointed out the boys’ weaknesses.
When they were not looking, he took the rod up a notch, then yelled, “One
more time: set, go!” and they jumped over it, one after the other. He raised
it a few more times before the boys caught on and said, “Ah! Ah! Fada!” He
laughed and said he believed they could jump higher than they thought they
could. And that they had just proved him right.
It was what Aunty Ifeoma did to my cousins, I realized then, setting
higher and higher jumps for them in the way she talked to them, in what she
expected of them. She did it all the time believing they would scale the rod.
And they did. It was different for Jaja and me. We did not scale the rod
because we believed we could, we scaled it because we were terrified that
we couldn’t.
“What clouds your face?” Father Amadi asked, sitting down beside
me. His shoulder touched mine. The new smell of sweat and old smell of
cologne filled my nostrils.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me about the nothing, then.”
“You believe in those boys,” I blurted out.
“Yes,” he said, watching me. “And they don’t need me to believe in
them as much as I need it for myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to believe in something that I never question.” He
picked up the water bottle, drank deeply from it. I watched the ripples in his
throat as the water went down. I wished I were the water, going into him, to
be with him, one with him. I had never envied water so much before. His
eyes caught mine, and I looked away, wondering if he had seen the longing
in my eyes.
“Your hair needs to be plaited,” he said.
“My hair?”
“Yes. I will take you to the woman who plaits your aunt’s hair in the
market.”
He reached out then and touched my hair. Mama had plaited it in the
hospital, but because of my raging headaches, she did not make the braids
tight. They were starting to slip out of the twists, and Father Amadi ran his

hand over the loosening braids, in gentle, smoothing motions. He was
looking right into my eyes. He was too close. His touch was so light I
wanted to push my head toward him, to feel the pressure of his hand. I
wanted to collapse against him. I wanted to press his hand to my head, my
belly, so he could feel the warmth that coursed through me.
He let go of my hair, and I watched him get up and run back to the
boys on the field.

IT WAS TOO EARLY when Amaka’s movements woke me up the next
morning; the room was not yet touched by the lavender rays of dawn. In the
faint glow from the security lights outside, I saw her tying her wrapper
round her chest. Something was wrong; she did not tie her wrapper just to
go to the toilet.
“Amaka, o gini?”
“Listen,” she said.
I could make out Aunty Ifeoma’s voice from the verandah, and I
wondered what she was doing up so early. Then I heard the singing. It was
the measured singing of a large group of people, and it came in through the
window.
“Students are rioting,” Amaka said.
I got up and followed her into the living room. What did it mean, that
students were rioting? Were we in danger? Jaja and Obiora were on the
verandah with Aunty Ifeoma. The cool air felt heavy against my bare arms,
as if it were holding on to raindrops that were reluctant to fall.
“Turn off the security lights,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “If they pass and see
the light, they might throw stones up here.”
Amaka turned off the lights. The singing was clearer now, loud and
resonant. There had to be a least five hundred people. “Sole administrator
must go. He doesn’t wear pant oh! Head of State must go. He doesn’t wear
pant oh! Where is running water? Where is light? Where is petrol?”
“The singing is so loud I thought they were right outside,” Aunty
Ifeoma said.
“Will they come here?” I asked.
Aunty Ifeoma put an arm around me and drew me close. She smelled
of talcum powder. “No, nne, we are fine. The people who might worry are

those that live near the vice chancellor. Last time, the students burned a
senior professor’s car.”
The singing was louder but not closer. The students were invigorated
now. Smoke was rising in thick, blinding fumes that blended into the star-
filled sky. Crashing sounds of breaking glass peppered the singing.
“All we are saying, sole administrator must go! All we are saying, he
must go! No be so? Na so!”
Shouts and yells accompanied the singing. A solo voice rose, and the
crowds cheered. The cool night wind, heavy with the smell of burning,
brought clear snatches of the resonating voice speaking pidgin English from
a street away.
“Great Lions and Lionesses! We wan people who dey wear clean
underwear, no be so? Abi the Head of State dey wear common underwear,
sef, talkless of clean one? No!”
“Look,” Obiora said, lowering his voice as if the group of about forty
students jogging past could possibly hear him. They looked like a fast-
flowing dark stream, illuminated by the torches and burning sticks they
held.
“Maybe they are catching up with the rest from down campus,”
Amaka said, after the students had passed.
We stayed out to listen for a little while longer before Aunty Ifeoma
said we had to go in and sleep.

AUNTY IFEOMA CAME HOME that afternoon with the news of the riot. It
was the worst one since they became commonplace some years ago. The
students had set the sole administrator’s house on fire; even the guest house
behind it had burned to the ground. Six university cars had been burned
down, as well. “They say the sole administrator and his wife were smuggled
out in the boot of an old Peugeot 404, o di egwu,” Aunty Ifeoma said,
waving around a circular. When I read the circular, I felt a tight discomfort
in my chest like the heartburn I got after eating greasy akara. It was signed
by the registrar. The university was closed down until further notice as a
result of the damage to university property and the atmosphere of unrest. I
wondered what it meant, if it meant Aunty Ifeoma would leave soon, if it
meant we would no longer come to Nsukka.

During my fitful siesta, I dreamed that that the sole administrator was
pouring hot water on Aunty Ifeoma’s feet in the bathtub of our home in
Enugu. Then Aunty Ifeoma jumped out of the bathtub and, in the manner of
dreams, jumped into America. She did not look back as I called to her to
stop.
I was still thinking about the dream that evening as we all sat in the
living room, watching TV. I heard a car drive in and park in front of the flat,
and I clasped my shaky hands together, certain it was Father Amadi. But the
banging on the door was unlike him; it was loud, rude, intrusive.
Aunty Ifeoma flew off her chair. “Onyezi? Who wants to break my
door, eh?”
She opened the door only a crack, but two wide hands reached in and
forced the door ajar. The heads of the four men who spilled into the flat
grazed the door frame. Suddenly, the flat seemed cramped, too small for the
blue uniforms and matching caps they wore, for the smell of stale cigarette
smoke and sweat that came in with them, for the raw bulge of muscle under
their sleeves.
“What is it? Who are you?” Aunty Ifeoma asked.
“We are here to search your house. We’re looking for documents
designed to sabotage the peace of the university. We have information that
you have been in collaboration with the radical student groups that staged
the riots…” The voice sounded mechanical, the voice of a person reciting
something written. The man speaking had tribal marks all over his cheek;
there seemed to be no area of skin free of the ingrained lines. The other
three men walked briskly into the flat as he spoke. One opened the drawers
of the sideboard, leaving each open. Two went into the bedrooms.
“Who sent you here?” Aunt Ifeoma asked.
“We are from the special security unit in Port Harcourt.”
“Do you have any papers to show me? You cannot just walk into my
house.”
“Look at this yeye woman oh! I said we are from the special security
unit!” The tribal marks curved even more on the man’s face as he frowned
and pushed Aunty Ifeoma aside.
“How you go just come enter like dis? Wetin be dis?” Obiora said,
rising, the fear in his eyes not quite shielded by the brazen manliness in his
pidgin English.

“Obiora, nodu ani,” Aunt Ifeoma quietly said, and Obiora sat down
quickly. He looked relieved that he had been asked to. Aunty Ifeoma
muttered to us all to remain seated, not to say a word, before she followed
the men into the rooms. They did not look inside the drawers they flung
open, they just threw the clothes and whatever else was inside on the floor.
They overturned all the boxes and suitcases in Aunty Ifeoma’s room, but
they did not rummage through the contents. They scattered, but they did not
search. As they left, the man with the tribal marks said to Aunty Ifeoma,
waving a stubby finger with a curved nail in her face, “Be careful, be very
careful.”
We were silent until the sound of their car driving off faded.
“We have to go to the police station,” Obiora said.
Aunt Ifeoma smiled; the movement of her lips did not brighten her
face. “That is where they came from. They’re all working together.”
“Why are they accusing you of encouraging the riot, Aunty?” Jaja
asked.
“It’s all rubbish. They want to scare me. Since when have students
needed somebody to tell them when to riot?”
“I don’t believe they just forced their way into our house and turned it
upside down,” Amaka said. “I don’t believe it.”
“Thank God Chima is asleep,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“We should leave,” Obiora said. “Mom, we should leave. Have you
talked to Aunty Phillipa since the last time?”
Aunty Ifeoma shook her head. She was putting back the books and
table mats from the sideboard drawers. Jaja went over to help her.
“What do you mean, leave? Why do we have to run away from our
own country? Why can’t we fix it?” Amaka asked.
“Fix what?” Obiora had a deliberate sneer on his face.
“So we have to run away? That’s the answer, running away?” Amaka
asked, her voice shrill.
“It’s not running away, it’s being realistic. By the time we get into
university, the good professors will be fed up with all this nonsense and
they will go abroad.”
“Shut up, both of you, and come and clean up this place!” Aunty
Ifeoma snapped. It was the first time she did not look on proudly and enjoy

my cousins’ arguments.

AN EARTHWORM WAS slithering in the bathtub, near the drain, when I
went in to take a bath in the morning. The purplish-brown body contrasted
with the whiteness of the tub. The pipes were old, Amaka had said, and
every rainy season, earthworms made their way into the bathtub. Aunty
Ifeoma had written the works department about the pipes, but, of course, it
would take ages before anybody did anything about them. Obiora said he
liked to study the worms; he’d discovered that they died only when you
poured salt on them. If you cut them in two, each part simply grew back to
form a whole earthworm.
Before I climbed into the tub, I picked the ropelike body out with a
twig broken off a broom and threw it in the toilet. I could not flush because
there was nothing to flush, it would be a waste of water. The boys would
have to pee looking at a floating earthworm in the toilet bowl.
When I finished my bath, Aunty Ifeoma had poured me a glass of
milk. She had sliced my okpa, too, and red chunks of pepper gaped from the
yellow slices. “How do you feel, nne?” she asked.
“I’m fine, Aunty.” I did not even remember that I had once hoped
never to open my eyes again, that fire had once dwelt in my body. I picked
up my glass, stared at the curiously beige and grainy milk.
“Homemade soybean milk,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Very nutritious. One
of our lecturers in agriculture sells it.”
“It tastes like chalk water,” Amaka said.
“How do you know, have you ever drunk chalk water?” Aunty Ifeoma
asked. She laughed, but I saw the lines, thin as spiders’ limbs, around her
mouth and the faraway look in her eyes. “I just can’t afford milk anymore,”
she added tiredly. “You should see how the prices of dried milk rise every
day, as if somebody is chasing them.”
The doorbell rang. My stomach heaved around itself whenever I heard
it, although I knew Father Amadi usually knocked quietly on the door.
It was a student of Aunt Ifeoma’s, in a tight pair of blue jeans. Her face
was light-skinned, but her complexion was from bleaching creams—her
hands were the dark brown color of Boumvita with no milk added. She held
a huge gray chicken. It was a symbol of her formal announcement to Aunty

Ifeoma that she was getting married, she said. When her fiance learned of
yet another university closure, he had told her he could no longer wait until
she graduated, since nobody knew when the university would reopen. The
wedding would be next month. She did not call him by his name, she called
him “dim,” “my husband,” with the proud tone of someone who had won a
prize, tossing her braided, reddish gold-dyed hair.
“I’m not sure I will come back to school when we reopen. I want to
have a baby first. I don’t want dim to think that he married me to have an
empty home,” she said, with a high, girlish laugh. Before she left, she
copied Aunty Ifeoma’s address down, so she could send an invitation card.
Aunty Ifeoma stood looking at the door. “She was never particularly
bright, so I shouldn’t be sad,” she said thoughtfully, and Amaka laughed
and said, “Mom!”
The chicken squawked. It was lying on its side because its legs were
tied together.
“Obiora, please kill this chicken and put it in the freezer before it loses
weight, since there’s nothing to feed it,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“They have been taking the light too often the past week. I say we eat
the whole chicken today,” Obiora said.
“How about we eat half and put the other half in the freezer and pray
NEPA brings back the light so it doesn’t spoil,” Amaka said.
“Okay,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
“I’ll kill it,” Jaja said, and we all turned to stare at him.
“Nna m, you have never killed a chicken, have you?” Aunty Ifeoma
asked.
“No. But I can kill it.”
“Okay,” Aunty Ifeoma said, and I turned to stare, startled at how easily
she had said that. Was she absentminded because she was thinking about
her student? Did she really think Jaja could kill a chicken?
I followed Jaja out to the backyard, watched him hold the wings down
under his foot. He bent the chicken’s head back. The knife glinted, meeting
with the sun rays to give off sparks. The chicken had stopped squawking;
perhaps it had decided to accept the inevitable. I did not look as Jaja slit its
feathery neck, but I watched the chicken dance to the frenzied tunes of
death. It flapped its gray wings in the red mud, twisting and flailing. Finally,
it lay in a puff of sullied feathers. Jaja picked it up and dunked it in the

basin of hot water that Amaka brought. There was a precision in Jaja, a
singlemindedness that was cold, clinical. He started to pluck the feathers off
quickly, and he did not speak until the chicken had been reduced to a slim
form covered with white-yellow skin. I did not realize how long a chicken’s
neck is until it was plucked.
“If Aunty Ifeoma leaves, then I want to leave with them, too,” he said.
I said nothing. There was so much I wanted to say and so much I did
not want to say. Two vultures hovered overhead and then landed on the
ground, close enough that I could have grabbed them if I had jumped fast.
Their bald necks glistened in the early-morning sun.
“See how close the vultures come now?” Obiora asked. He and Amaka
had come to stand by the back door. “They are getting hungrier and
hungrier. Nobody kills chickens these days, and so there are less entrails for
them to eat.” He picked up a stone and threw it at the vultures. They flew
up and perched on the branches of the mango tree only a little distance
away.
“Papa-Nnukwu used to say that the vultures have lost their prestige,”
Amaka said. “In the old days, people liked them because when they came
down to eat the entrails of animals used in sacrifice, it meant the gods were
happy.”
“In these new days, they should have the good sense to wait for us to
be done killing the chicken before they descend,” Obiora said.
Father Amadi came after Jaja had cut up the chicken and Amaka had
put half of it in a plastic bag for the freezer. Aunty Ifeoma smiled when
Father Amadi told her he was taking me to get my hair done. “You are
doing my job for me, Father, thank you,” she said. “Greet Mama Joe. Tell
her I will come soon to plait my hair for Easter.”

MAMA J>OE’S SHED IN Ogige market just barely fit the high stool where
she sat and the smaller stool in front of her. I sat on the smaller stool. Father
Amadi stood outside, beside the wheelbarrows and pigs and people and
chickens that went past, because his broad-shouldered form could not fit in
the shed. Mama Joe wore a wool hat even though sweat had made yellow
patches under the sleeves of her blouse. Women and children worked in the
neighboring sheds, twisting hair, weaving hair, plaiting hair with thread.

Wooden boards with lopsided print leaned on broken chairs in front of the
sheds. The closest ones read MAMA CHINEDU SPECIAL HAIR STYLIST and MAMA
BOMBOY INTERNATIONAL HAIR. The women and children called out to every
female who walked past. “Let us plait your hair!” “Let us make you
beautiful!” “I will plait it well for you!” Mostly, the women shrugged off
their pulling hands and walked on.
Mama Joe welcomed me as though she had been plaiting my hair all
my life. If I was Aunty Ifeoma’s niece, then I was special. She wanted to
know how Aunty Ifeoma was doing. “I have not seen that good woman in
almost a month. I would be naked but for your aunty, who gives me her old
clothes. I know she doesn’t have that much, either. Trying so hard to raise
those children well. Kpau! A strong woman,” Mama Joe said. Her Igbo
dialect came out sounding strange, with words dropped; it was difficult to
understand. She told Father Amadi that she would be done in an hour. He
bought a bottle of Coke and placed it at the foot of my stool before he left.
“Is he your brother?” Mama Joe asked, looking after him.
“No. He’s a priest.” I wanted to add that he was the one whose voice
dictated my dreams.
“Did you say he is a fada?”
“Yes.”
“A real Catholic fada?”
“Yes.” I wondered if there were any unreal Catholic priests.
“All that maleness wasted,” she said, combing my thick hair gently.
She put the comb down and untangled some ends with her fingers. It felt
strange, because Mama had always plaited my hair. “Do you see the way he
looks at you? It means something, I tell you.”
“Oh,” I said, because I did not know what Mama Joe expected me to
say. But she was already shouting something to Mama Bomboy across the
aisle. While she turned my hair into tight cornrows, she chattered nonstop
to Mama Bomboy and to Mama Caro, whose voice I heard but whom I
could not see because she was a few sheds away. The covered basket at the
entrance of Mama Joe’s shed moved. A brown spiraled shell crawled out
from underneath. I nearly jumped—I did not know the basket was full of
live snails that Mama Joe sold. She stood up and retrieved the snail and put
it back in. “God take power from the devil,” she muttered. She was on the

last corn row when a woman walked up to her shed and asked to see the
snails. Mama Joe took the covering basket off.
“They are big,” she said. “My sister’s children picked them today at
dawn near Adada lake.”
The woman picked up the basket and shook it, searching for tiny shells
hidden among the big ones. Finally, she said they were not that big anyway
and left. Mama Joe shouted after the woman, “People who have bad
stomachs should not spread their bad will to others! You will not find snails
this size anywhere else in the market!”
She picked up an enterprising snail that was crawling out of the open
basket. She threw it back in and muttered, “God take power from the devil.”
I wondered if it was the same snail, crawling out, being thrown back in, and
then crawling out again. Determined. I wanted to buy the whole basket and
set that one snail free.
Mama Joe finished my hair before Father Amadi came back. She gave
me a red mirror, neatly broken in half, so that I saw my new hairstyle in
fractions.
“Thank you. It’s nice,” I said.
She reached out to straighten a cornrow that did not need to be
straightened. “A man does not bring a young girl to dress her hair unless he
loves that young girl, I am telling you. It does not happen,” she said. And I
nodded because again I did not know what to say.
“It doesn’t happen,” Mama Joe repeated, as if I had disagreed. A
cockroach ran out from behind her stool, and she stepped on it with her bare
foot. “God take power from the devil.”
She spit into her palm, rubbed her hands together, drew the basket
closer, and started to rearrange the snails. I wondered if she had spit in her
hand before she started on my hair. A woman in a blue wrapper with a bag
tucked under her armpit bought the whole basketful of snails just before
Father Amadi came to pick me up. Mama Joe called her “nwanyi oma,”
although she was not pretty at all, and I imagined the snails fried to a crisp,
warped corpses floating in the woman’s soup pot.
“Thank you,” I said to Father Amadi, as we walked to the car. He had
paid Mama Joe so well that she protested, weakly, and said she should not
take so much for plaiting the hair of Aunty Ifeoma’s niece.

Father Amadi brushed my gratitude aside in the goodnatured way of
someone who had done what was his duty. “O maka, it brings out your
face,” he said, looking at me. “You know, we still don’t have anybody
playing Our Lady in our play. You should try out. When I was in the
juniorate, the prettiest girl in the junior convent always played Our Lady.”
I took a deep breath and prayed I would not stutter. “I can’t act. I’ve
never acted.”
“You can try,” he said. He turned the key in the ignition, and the car
started with a squeaky shudder. Before he eased it onto the crowded market
road, he looked at me and said, “You can do anything you want, Kambili.”
As he drove, we sang Igbo choruses. I lifted my voice until it was
smooth and melodious like his.

The green sign outside the church was lit with white lights. The
words ST. PETER’S CATHOLIC CHAPLAINCY, UNIVERSITY OF NIGERIA seemed to
twinkle as Amaka and I walked into the incense-scented church. I sat with
her in the front pew, our thighs touching. We had come alone; Aunty
Ifeoma had gone to the morning service with the others.
St. Peter’s did not have the huge candles or the ornate marble altar of
St. Agnes. The women did not tie their scarves properly around their heads,
to cover as much hair as possible. I watched them as they came up for
offertory. Some just draped see-through black veils over their hair; others
wore trousers, even jeans. Papa would be scandalized. A woman’s hair must
be covered in the house of God, and a woman must not wear a man’s
clothes, especially in the house of God, he would say.
I imagined the plain wooden crucifix above the altar swinging back
and forth as Father Amadi raised the host at consecration. His eyes were
shut, and I knew that he was no longer behind the altar draped in white
cotton, that he was somewhere else that only he and God knew about. He
gave me communion and when his finger grazed my tongue, I wanted to
fall at his feet. But the thunderous singing from the choir propped me up
and strengthened me to walk back to my seat.
After we said the Lord’s Prayer, Father Amadi did not say, “Offer to
each other the sign of peace.” He broke into an Igbo song instead.

“Ekene nke udo—ezigbo nwanne m nye m aka gi.” “The greeting of
peace—my dear sister, dear brother, give me your hand.”
People clasped hands and hugged. Amaka hugged me, then turned to
exchange brief hugs with the family seated behind. Father Amadi smiled
right at me from the altar, his lips moving. I was not sure what he said, but I
knew I would think about it over and over. I was still thinking about it,
wondering what it was he had said, as he drove Amaka and me home after
Mass.
He told Amaka that he still had not received her confirmation name.
He needed to get all the names together and have the chaplain look at them
by the next day, Saturday. Amaka said she was not interested in choosing an
English name, and Father Amadi laughed and said he would help her
choose a name if she wanted. I looked out the window as we drove. There
was no power, and so the campus looked as though a giant blue-black
blanket had covered it. The streets we drove past were like tunnels darkened
by the hedges on each side. Gold-yellow lights of kerosene lamps flickered
from behind windows and on verandahs of homes, like the eyes of hundreds
of wild cats.
Aunty Ifeoma was sitting on a stool on the verandah, across from a
friend of hers. Obiora was on the mat, seated between the two kerosene
lamps. Both were turned low, filling the verandah with shadows. Amaka
and I greeted Aunty Ifeoma’s friend, who wore a bright tie-dye boubou and
her short hair natural. She smiled and said, “Kedu?”
“Father Amadi said to greet you, Mom. He couldn’t stay, he has people
coming to see him at the chaplaincy house,” Amaka said. She made to take
one kerosene lamp.
“Keep the lamp. Jaja and Chima have a lit candle inside. Close the
door so the insects don’t follow you in,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
I pulled my scarf off and sat down next to Aunty Ifeoma, watching the
insects crowd around the lamps. There were many tiny beetles with
something sticking out at their backs, as if they had forgotten to tuck in
their wings properly. They were not as active as the small yellow flies that
sometimes flew away from the lamp and too close to my eyes. Aunty
Ifeoma was recounting how the security agents had come to the flat. The
dim light blurred her features. She paused often, to add dramatic urgency to

her story, and even though her friend kept saying “Gini mezia?”—What
happened next?—Aunty Ifeoma said “Chelu nu”—wait—and took her time.
Her friend was silent a long time after Aunty Ifeoma finished her story.
The crickets seemed to take up the conversation then; their loud shrilling
seemed so close, although they well might have been miles away.
“Did you hear what happened to Professor Okafor’s son?” Aunty
Ifeoma’s friend finally asked. She spoke more Igbo than English, but all her
English words came out with a consistent British accent, not like Papa’s,
which came on only when he was with white people and sometimes skipped
a few words so that half a sentence sounded Nigerian and the other half
British.
“Which Okafor?” Aunty Ifeoma asked.
“Okafor who lives on Fulton Avenue. His son, Chidifu.”
“The one who is Obiora’s friend?”
“Yes, that one. He stole his father’s exam papers and sold them to his
father’s students.”
“Ekwuzina! That small boy?”
“Yes. Now that the university is closed, the students came to the house,
to harass the boy for the money. Of course he had spent it. Okafor beat his
son’s front tooth out yesterday. Yet this is the same Okafor who will not
speak out about what is going wrong in this university, who will do
anything to win favor with the Big Men in Abuja. He is the one who makes
the list of lecturers who are disloyal. I hear he included my name and
yours.”
“I heard that, too. Mana, what does it have to do with Chidifu?”
“Do you try to treat cancer sores or the cancer itself? We cannot afford
to give pocket money to our children. We cannot afford to eat meat. We
cannot afford bread. So your child steals and you turn to him in surprise?
You must try to heal the cancer because the sores will keep coming back.”
“Mba, Chiaku. You cannot justify theft.”
“I do not justify it. What I am saying is that Okafor should not be
surprised and should not waste his energy breaking a stick on his poor son’s
body. It is what happens when you sit back and do nothing about tyranny.
Your child becomes what you cannot recognize.”
Aunty Ifeoma sighed heavily and looked at Obiora, perhaps wondering
if he, too, could turn into something she would not recognize. “I talked to

Phillipa the other day,” she said.
“Oh? How is she, how is oyinbo land treating her?”
“She is well.”
“And life as a second-class citizen in America?”
“Chiaku, your sarcasm is unbecoming.”
“But it is true. All my years in Cambridge, I was a monkey who had
developed the ability to reason.”
“It is not that bad now.”
“That is what they tell you. Every day our doctors go there and end up
washing plates for oyinbo because oyinbo does not think we study medicine
right. Our lawyers go and drive taxis because oyinbo does not trust how we
train them in law.”
Aunty Ifeoma cut in, quickly, interrupting her friend. “I sent my CV to
Phillipa.”
Her friend brought the ends of her boubou together and tucked them
in, between her stretched-out legs. She looked out into the dark night, her
eyes narrowed, either in thought or maybe in an attempt to figure exactly
how far away the crickets were. “So you, too, Ifeoma,” she finally said.
“It is not about me, Chiaku.” Aunty Ifeoma paused. “Who will teach
Amaka and Obiora in university?”
“The educated ones leave, the ones with the potential to right the
wrongs. They leave the weak behind. The tyrants continue to reign because
the weak cannot resist. Do you not see that it is a cycle? Who will break
that cycle?”
“That is simply unrealistic pep-rally nonsense, Aunty Chiaku,” Obiora
said.
I saw the tension fall from the sky and envelop us all. A child’s crying
upstairs interrupted the silence.
“Go into my room and wait for me, Obiora,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
Obiora stood up and left. He looked grave, as if he had only just
realized what he had done. Aunty Ifeoma apologized to her friend. But it
was different after that. The insult of a child—a fourteen year old—hung
between them, made their tongues heavy so that speech became a labor. Her
friend left soon afterward, and Aunty Ifeoma stormed inside, nearly
knocking a lamp over. I heard the thud of a slap and then her raised voice.
“I do not quarrel with your disagreeing with my friend. I quarrel with how

you have disagreed. I do not raise disrespectful children in this house, do
you hear me? You are not the only child who has skipped a class in school. I
will not tolerate this rubbish from you! I na-anu?” She lowered her voice
then. I heard the click of her bedroom door closing.
“I always got the stick on my palm,” Amaka said, joining me on the
verandah. “And Obiora got his on his buttocks. I think Mom felt giving it to
me on my buttocks would somehow affect me and maybe I would end up
not growing breasts or something. I preferred the stick to her slaps, though,
because her hand is made of metal, ezi okwum.” Amaka laughed.
“Afterward we would talk about it for hours. I hated that. Just give me the
lashes and let me out. But no, she explained why you had been flogged,
what she expected you to do not to get flogged again. That’s what she’s
doing with Obiora.”
I looked away. Amaka took my hand in hers. It felt warm, like the
hand of someone just recovering from malaria. She did not speak, but I felt
as though we were thinking the same thing—how different it was for Jaja
and me.
I cleared my throat. “Obiora must really want to leave Nigeria.”
“He’s stupid,” Amaka said. She squeezed my hand tight before letting
go.

AUNTY IFEOMA WAS CLEANING out the freezer, which had started to smell
because of the incessant power outages. She wiped up the puddle of wine-
colored foul water that had leaked to the floor and then brought out the bags
of meat and laid them in a bowl. The tiny beef pieces had turned a mottled
brown. The pieces of the chicken Jaja had killed had turned a deep yellow.
“So much wasted meat,” I said.
Aunty Ifeoma laughed. “Wasted, kwa? I will boil it well with spices
and cook away the spoilage.”
“Mom, she is talking like a Big Man’s daughter,” Amaka said, and I
was grateful that she did not sneer at me, that she echoed her mother’s
laughter instead.
We were on the verandah, picking the stones out of rice. We sat on
mats on the floor, beyond the shade so we could feel the mild morning sun
emerging after the rain. The dirty and clean rice were in two careful mounds

on the enamel trays before us, with the stones placed on the mat. Amaka
would divide the rice into smaller portions to blow the chaff out afterward.
“The problem with this kind of cheap rice is that it cooks into a
pudding, no matter how little water you put in. You start to wonder if it is
garri or rice that you are eating,” Amaka muttered, when Aunty Ifeoma left.
I smiled. I had never felt the companionship I felt sitting next to her,
listening to her Fela and Onyeka cassettes on the tiny tape-player-radio,
which she had put batteries into. I had never felt the comfortable silence we
shared as we cleaned the rice, carefully, because the grains were stunted and
sometimes looked like the glassy stones. Even the air seemed still, slowly
rousing itself after the rain. The clouds were just starting to clear, like
cotton-wool tufts reluctantly letting go of one another.
The sound of a car driving toward the flat disrupted our peace. I knew
Father Amadi had office hours that morning at the chaplaincy, yet I still
hoped it was him. I imagined him walking up to the verandah, holding his
soutane in one hand so he could run up the short stairs, smiling.
Amaka turned to look. “Aunty Beatrice!”
I whipped around. Mama was climbing out of a yellow unsteady-
looking taxi. What was she doing here? What had happened? Why was she
wearing her rubber slippers all the way from Enugu? She walked slowly,
holding on to her wrapper that seemed so loose it would slip off her waist
any minute. Her blouse did not look ironed.
“Mama, o gini? Did something happen?” I asked, hugging her quickly
so I could stand back and examine her face. Her hand was cold.
Amaka hugged her and took her handbag. “Aunty Beatrice, nno.”
Aunty Ifeoma came hurrying out to the verandah, drying her hands in
front of her shorts. She hugged Mama and then led her into the living room,
supporting her as one would support a cripple.
“Where is Jaja?” Mama asked.
“He is out with Obiora,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Sit down, nwunye m.
Amaka, get money from my purse and go and buy a soft drink for your
Aunty.”
“Don’t worry, I will drink water,” Mama said.
“We have not had light, the water will not be cold.”
“It does not matter. I will drink it.”

Mama sat carefully at the edge of a cane chair. Her eyes were glazed
over as she looked around. I knew she could not see the picture with the
cracked frame or the fresh African lilies in the oriental vase.
“I do not know if my head is correct,” she said, and pressed the back of
her hand to her forehead, in the way that one checks the degree of a fever.
“I got back from the hospital today. The doctor told me to rest, but I took
Eugene’s money and asked Kevin to take me to the park. I hired a taxi and
came here.”
“You were in hospital? What happened?” Aunty Ifeoma asked quietly.
Mama looked around the room. She stared at the wall clock for a
while, the one with the broken second hand, before she turned to me. “You
know that small table where we keep the family Bible, nne? Your father
broke it on my belly.” She sounded as if she were talking about someone
else, as if the table were not made of sturdy wood. “My blood finished on
that floor even before he took me to St. Agnes. My doctor said there was
nothing he could do to save it.” Mama shook her head slowly. A thin line of
tears crawled down her cheeks as though it had been a struggle for them to
get out of her eyes.
“To save it?” Aunty Ifeoma whispered. “What do you mean?”
“I was six weeks gone.”
“Ekwuzina! Don’t say that again!” Aunty Ifeoma’s eyes widened.
“It is true. Eugene did not know, I had not yet told him, but it is true.”
Mama slid down to the floor. She sat with her legs stretched out in front of
her. It was so undignified, but I lowered myself and sat next to her, our
shoulders touching.
She cried for a long time. She cried until my hand, clasped in hers, felt
stiff. She cried until Aunty Ifeoma finished cooking the rotting meat in a
spicy stew. She cried until she fell asleep, her head against the seat of the
chair. Jaja laid her on a mattress on the living room floor.
Papa called that evening, as we sat around the kerosene lamp on the
verandah. Aunty Ifeoma answered the phone and came out to tell Mama
who it was. “I hung up. I told him I would not let you come to the phone.”
Mama flew up from her stool. “Why? Why?”
“Nwunye m, sit down right now!” Aunty Ifeoma snapped.
But Mama did not sit down. She went into Aunty Ifeoma’s room and
called Papa. The phone rang shortly afterward, and I knew he had called

back. She emerged from the room after about a quarter of an hour.
“We are leaving tomorrow. The children and I,” she said, staring
straight ahead, above everyone’s eye level.
“Leaving for where?” Aunty Ifeoma asked.
“Enugu. We’re going back home.”
“Has a nut come loose in your head, gbo? You are not going
anywhere.”
“Eugene is coming himself to pick us up.”
“Listen to me.” Aunty Ifeoma softened her voice; she must have
known the firm voice would not penetrate the fixed smile on Mama’s face.
Mama’s eyes were still glazed, but she looked like a different woman from
the one who had come out of the taxi that morning. She looked possessed
by a different demon. “At least stay a few days, nwunye m, don’t go back so
soon.”
Mama shook her head. Except for the stiff stretch of her lips, she was
expressionless. “Eugene has not been well. He has been having migraines
and fever,” she said. “He is carrying more than any man should carry. Do
you know what Ade’s death did to him? It is too much for one person.”
“Ginidi, what are you saying?” Aunty Ifeoma swiped impatiently at an
insect that flew close to her ears. “When Ifediora was alive, there were
times, nwunye m, when the university did not pay salaries for months.
Ifediora and I had nothing, eh, yet he never raised a hand to me.”
“Do you know that Eugene pays the school fees of up to a hundred of
our people? Do you know how many people are alive because of your
brother?”
“That is not the point and you know it.”
“Where would I go if I leave Eugene’s house? Tell me, where would I
go?” She did not wait for Aunty Ifeoma to respond. “Do you know how
many mothers pushed their daughters at him? Do you know how many
asked him to impregnate them, even, and not to bother paying a bride
price?”
“And so? I ask you—and so?” Aunty Ifeoma was shouting now.
Mama lowered herself to the floor. Obiora had spread a mat and there
was room on it, but she sat on the bare cement, resting her head against the
railings. “You have come again with your university talk, Ifeoma,” she said,
mildly, and then looked away . to signal that the conversation was over.

I had never seen Mama like that, never seen that look in her eyes,
never heard her say so much in such a short time.
Long after she and Aunty Ifeoma had gone to bed, I sat on the
verandah with Amaka and Obiora, playing whot—Obiora had taught me to
play all the card games.
“Last card!” Amaka announced, smug, placing down a card.
“I hope Aunty Beatrice sleeps well,” Obiora said, picking up a card.
“She should have taken a mattress. The mat is hard.”
“She’ll be fine,” Amaka said. She looked at me and repeated, “She’ll
be fine.”
Obiora reached out and patted my shoulder. I did not know what to do,
so I asked “It’s my turn?” even though I knew it was.
“Uncle Eugene is not a bad man, really,” Amaka said. “People have
problems, people make mistakes.”
“Mh,” Obiora said, pushing his glasses up.
“I mean, some people can’t deal with stress,” Amaka said, looking at
Obiora as though she expected him to say something. He remained silent,
examining the card he held up to his face.
Amaka picked up an extra card. “He paid for Papa-Nnukwu’s funeral,
after all.” She was still watching Obiora. But he made no response to her;
instead, he placed his card down and said, “Check up!” He had won again.
As I lay in bed, I did not think about going back to Enugu; I thought
about how many card games I had lost.

WHEN PAPA ARRIVED in the Mercedes, Mama packed our bags herself
and put them in the car. Papa hugged Mama, holding her close, and she
rested her head on his chest. Papa had lost weight; usually, Mama’s small
hands barely went round to his back, but this time her hands rested on the
small of his back. I did not notice the rashes on his face until I came close
to hug him. They were like tiny pimples, each with whitish pus at the tips,
and they covered the whole of his face, even his eyelids. His face looked
swollen, oily, discolored. I had intended to hug him and have him kiss my
forehead, but instead I stood there and stared at his face.
“I have a little allergy,” he said. “Nothing serious.”

When he took me in his arms, I closed my eyes as he kissed my
forehead.
“We will see you soon,” Amaka whispered before we hugged good-
bye. She called me nwanne m nwanyi—my sister. She stood outside the
flat, waving, until I could no longer see her through the rear windscreen.
When Papa started the rosary as we drove out of the compound, his
voice was different, tired. I stared at the back of his neck, which was not
covered by the pimples, and it looked different, too—smaller, with thinner
folds of skin.
I turned to look at Jaja. I wanted our eyes to meet, so I could tell him
how much I had wanted to spend Easter in Nsukka, how much I had wanted
to attend Amaka’s confirmation and Father Amadi’s Pascal Mass, how I had
planned to sing with my voice raised. But Jaja glued his eyes to the
window, and except for muttering the prayers, he was silent until we got to
Enugu.
The scent of fruits filled my nose when Adamu opened our compound
gates. It was as if the high walls locked in the scent of the ripening cashews
and mangoes and avocados. It nauseated me.
“See, the purple hibiscuses are about to bloom,” Jaja said, as we got
out of the car. He was pointing, although I did not need him to. I could see
the sleepy, oval-shape buds in the front yard as they swayed in the evening
breeze.
The next day was Palm Sunday, the day Jaja did not go to communion,
the day Papa threw his heavy missal across the room and broke the
figurines.

THE PIECES OF GODS
After Palm Sunday

Everything came tumbling down after Palm Sunday. Howling
winds came with an angry rain, uprooting frangipani trees in the front yard.
They lay on the lawn, their pink and white flowers grazing the grass, their
roots waving lumpy soil in the air. The satellite dish on top of the garage
came crashing down, and lounged on the driveway like a visiting alien
spaceship. The door of my wardrobe dislodged completely. Sisi broke a full
set of Mama’s china.
Even the silence that descended on the house was sudden, as though
the old silence had broken and left us with the sharp pieces. When Mama
asked Sisi to wipe the floor of the living room, to make sure no dangerous
pieces of figurines were left lying somewhere, she did not lower her voice
to a whisper. She did not hide the tiny smile that drew lines at the edge of
her mouth. She did not sneak Jaja’s food to his room, wrapped in cloth so it
would appear that she had simply brought his laundry in. She took him his
food on a white tray, with a matching plate.
There was something hanging over all of us. Sometimes I wanted it all
to be a dream—the missal flung at the étagère, the shattered figurines, the
brittle air. It was too new, too foreign, and I did not know what to be or how
to be. I walked to the bathroom and kitchen and dining room on tiptoe. At
dinner, I kept my gaze fixed on the photo of Grandfather, the one where he
looked like a squat superhero in his Knights of St. Mulumba cape and hood,
until it was time to pray and I closed my eyes. Jaja did not come out of his
room even though Papa asked him to. The first time Papa asked him, the
day after Palm Sunday, Papa could not open his door because he had
pushed his study desk in front of it.
“Jaja, Jaja,” Papa said, pushing the door. “You must eat with us this
evening, do you hear me?”
But Jaja did not come out of his room, and Papa said nothing about it
while we ate; he ate very little of his food but drank a lot of water, telling
Mama to ask “that girl” to bring more bottles of water. The rashes on his
face seemed to have become bigger and flatter, less defined, so that they
made his face look even puffier.
Yewande Coker came with her little daughter while we were at dinner.
As I greeted her and shook her hand, I examined her face, her body, looking
for signs of how different life was now that Ade Coker had died. But she

looked the same, except for her attire—a black wrapper, black blouse, and a
black scarf covering all of her hair and most of her forehead. Her daughter
sat stiffly on the sofa, tugging at the red ribbon that held her braided hair up
in a ponytail. When Mama asked if she would drink Fanta, she shook her
head, still tugging at the ribbon.
“She has finally spoken, sir,” Yewande said, her eyes on her daughter.
“She said ‘mommy’ this morning. I came to let you know that she has
finally spoken.”
“Praise God!” Papa said, so loudly that I jumped.
“Thanks be to God,” Mama said.
Yewande stood up and knelt before Papa. “Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Thank you for everything. If we had not gone to the hospital abroad, what
would have become of my daughter?”
“Get up, Yewande,” Papa said. “It is God. It is all from God.”

THAT EVENING, WHEN PAPA was in the study praying—I could hear him
reading aloud a psalm—I went to Jaja’s door, pushed it and heard the
scraping sound of the study desk lodged against it as it opened. I told Jaja
about Yewande’s visit, and he nodded and said Mama had told him about it.
Ade Coker’s daughter had not spoken since her father died. Papa had paid
to have her see the best doctors and therapists in Nigeria and abroad.
“I didn’t know she hadn’t talked since he died,” I said. “It is almost
four months now. Thanks be to God.”
Jaja looked at me silently for a while. His expression reminded me of
the old looks Amaka used to give me, that made me feel sorry for what I
was not sure of.
“She will never heal,” Jaja said. “She may have started talking now,
but she will never heal.”
As I left Jaja’s room, I pushed the study desk a little way aside. And I
wondered why Papa could not open Jaja’s door when he tried earlier; the
desk was not that heavy.

I DREADED EASTER SUNDAY. I dreaded what would happen when Jaja did
not go to communion again. And I knew that he would not go; I saw it in

his long silences, in the set of his lips, in his eyes that seemed focused on
invisible objects for a long time.
On Good Friday, Aunty Ifeoma called. She might have missed us if we
had gone to the morning prayers, as Papa had planned. But during
breakfast, Papa’s hands kept shaking, so much that he spilled his tea; I
watched the liquid creep across the glass table. Afterward, he said he
needed to rest and we would go to the Celebration of the Passion of Christ
in the evening, the one Father Benedict usually led before the kissing of the
cross. We had gone to the evening celebration on Good Friday of last year,
because Papa had been busy with something at the Standard in the morning.
Jaja and I walked side by side to the altar to kiss the cross, and Jaja pressed
his lips to the wooden crucifix first, before the Mass server wiped the cross
and held it out to me. It felt cool to my lips. A shiver ran across me and I
felt goose bumps appear on my arms. I cried afterward, when we were
seated, silent crying with tears running down my cheeks. Many people
around me cried, too, the way they did during the Stations of the Cross
when they moaned and said, “Oh, what the Lord did for me” or “He died
for a common me!” Papa was pleased with my tears; I still remembered
clearly how he leaned toward me and caressed my cheek. And although I
was not sure why I was crying, or if I was crying for the same reasons as
those other people kneeling in front of the pews, I felt proud to have Papa
do that.
I was thinking about this when Aunty Ifeoma called. The phone rang
for too long, and I thought Mama would pick it up, since Papa was asleep.
But she didn’t, so I went to the study and answered it.
Aunty Ifeoma’s voice was many notches lower than usual. “They have
given me notice of termination,” she said, without even waiting for me to
reply to her “How are you?” “For what they call illegal activity. I have one
month. I have applied for a visa at the American Embassy. And Father
Amadi has been notified. He is leaving for missionary work in Germany at
the end of the month.”
It was a double blow. I staggered. It was as if my calves had sacks of
dried beans tied to them. Aunty Ifeoma asked for Jaja, and I nearly tripped,
nearly fell to the floor, as I went to his room to call him. After Jaja talked to
Aunty Ifeoma, he put the phone down and said, “We are going to Nsukka
today. We will spend Easter in Nsukka.”

I did not ask him what he meant, or how he would convince Papa to let
us go. I watched him knock on Papa’s door and go in.
“We are going to Nsukka. Kambili and I,” I heard him say.
I did not hear what Papa said, then I heard Jaja say, “We are going to
Nsukka today, not tomorrow. If Kevin will not take us, we will still go. We
will walk if we have to.”
I stood still in front of the staircase, my hands trembling violently. Yet
I did not think to close my ears; I did not think to count to twenty. Instead, I
went into my room and sat by the window, looking out at the cashew tree.
Jaja came in to say that Papa had agreed that Kevin could take us. He held a
bag so hastily packed he had not even done up the zipper, and he watched
me throw some things into a bag, saying nothing. He was moving his
weight from one leg to the other impatiently.
“Is Papa still in bed?” I asked, but Jaja did not answer as he turned to
go downstairs.
I knocked on Papa’s door and opened it. He was sitting up in bed; his
red silk pajamas looked disheveled. Mama was pouring water into a glass
for him.
“Bye, Papa,” I said.
He got up to hug me. His face looked much brighter than in the
morning, and the rashes seemed to be clearing.
“We will see you soon,” he said, kissing my forehead.
I hugged Mama before I left the room. The stairs seemed delicate all of
a sudden, as if they would crumble and a huge hole would appear and
prevent me from leaving. I walked slowly until I got downstairs. Jaja was
waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and he reached out to take my
bag.
Kevin stood by the car when we came outside. “Who will take your
father to church, now?” he asked, looking at us suspiciously. “Your father is
not well enough to drive himself.”
Jaja remained silent for so long that I realized he was not going to give
Kevin an answer, and I said, “He said you should take us to Nsukka.”
Kevin shrugged, and muttered, “This kind of trip, can’t you go
tomorrow?” before starting the car. He remained silent throughout the drive,
and I saw his eyes often dart to us, mostly to Jaja, in the rearview mirror.

A FILM OF SWEAT coated my entire body like a transparent second skin.
It gave way to a dripping wetness on my neck, my forehead, underneath my
breasts. We had left the back door of Aunty Ifeoma’s kitchen wide open
although flies buzzed in, circling over a pot of old soup. It was a choice
between flies and even more heat, Amaka had said, swiping at them.
Obiora was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and nothing else. He was
bent over the kerosene stove, trying to get the fire to spread across the wick.
His eyes were blotchy from the fumes.
“This wick has thinned so much there’s nothing left to hold the fire,”
he said, when he finally got the fire to spread around. “We should use the
gas cooker for everything now, anyway. There’s no point saving the gas,
since we won’t be needing it for much longer.” He stretched, the sweat
clinging to the outline of his ribs. He picked up an old newspaper and
fanned himself for a while, then swatted at some flies.
“Nekwa! Don’t knock them into my pot,” Amaka said. She was
pouring bright reddish-orange palm oil into a pot.
“We shouldn’t be bleaching any more palm oil. We should splurge on
vegetable oil for these last few weeks,” Obiora said, still swatting at the
flies.
“You sound like Mom has already gotten the visa,” Amaka snapped.
She placed the pot on the kerosene burner. The fire snaked around to the
side of the pot, still a wild orange, spewing fumes; it had not yet stabilized
to a clean blue.
“She will get the visa. We should be positive.”
“Haven’t you heard how those American embassy people treat
Nigerians? They insult you and call you a liar and on top of it, eh, refuse to
give you a visa,” Amaka said.
“Mom will get the visa. A university is sponsoring her,” Obiora said.
“So? Universities sponsor many people who still don’t get visas.”
I started to cough. Thick white smoke from the bleaching palm oil
filled the kitchen, and in the stuffy mix of the fumes and heat and flies, I felt
faint.
“Kambili,” Amaka said. “Go to the verandah until the smoke blows
out.”
“No, it’s nothing,” I said.

“Go, biko.”
I went to the verandah, still coughing. It was clear that I was unused to
bleaching palm oil, that I was used to vegetable oil, which did not need
bleaching. But there had been no resentment in Amaka’s eyes, no sneer, no
turndown of her lips. I was grateful when she called me back later to ask
that I help her cut the ugu for the soup. I did not just cut the ugu, I made the
garri also. Without her still eyes bearing down on me, I did not pour in too
much hot water, and the garri turned out firm and smooth. I ladled my garri
onto a flat plate, pushed it to the side, and then spooned my soup beside it. I
watched the soup spreading, seeping in underneath the garri. I had never
done this before; at home, Jaja and I always used separate dishes for garri
and soup.
We ate on the verandah, although it was almost as hot as the kitchen.
The railings felt like the metal handles of a boiling pot.
“Papa-Nnukwu used to say that an angry sun like this in rainy season
means that a swift rain will come. The sun is warning us of the rain,”
Amaka said, as we settled down on the mat with our food.
We ate quickly because of the heat, because even the soup tasted like
sweat. Afterward, we trooped to the neighbors’ flat on the topmost floor
and stood on their verandah, to see if we could catch a breeze. Amaka and I
stood by the railings, looking down. Obiora and Chima squatted to watch
the children playing on the floor, clustered around the plastic Ludo board
and rolling dice. Somebody poured a bucket of water on the verandah and
the boys lay down, with their backs on the wet floor.
I looked out at Marguerite Cartwright Avenue below, at a red
Volkswagen driving past. It revved loudly as it went over the speed bump,
and even from the verandah, I could see where the color had faded to a
rusty orange. I felt nostalgic as I watched the Volkswagen disappear down
the street, and I was not sure why. Maybe it was because it revved like
Aunty Ifeoma’s car sometimes did, and it reminded me that very soon, I
would not see her or her car anymore. She had gone to the police station to
get a statement, which she would take to her visa interview at the American
embassy to prove that she had never been convicted of a crime. Jaja had
gone with her.
“I suppose we won’t need to protect our doors with metal in America,”
Amaka said, as if she knew what I was thinking about. She was fanning

herself briskly with a folded newspaper.
“What?”
“Mom’s students broke into her office once and stole exam questions.
She told the works department that she wanted metal bars on her office
doors and windows, and they said there was no money. You know what she
did?”
Amaka turned to look at me; a small smile at the edges of her lips. I
shook my head.
“She went to a construction site, and they gave her metal rods for free.
Then she asked Obiora and me to help her install them. We drilled holes
and fit the rods in with cement, across her windows and doors.”
“Oh,” I said. I wanted to reach out and touch Amaka.
“And then she put up a sign at her door that said EXAM QUESTIONS ARE
IN THE BANK.” Amaka smiled and then started to fold and refold the
newspaper. “I won’t be happy in America. It won’t be the same.”
“You will drink fresh milk from a bottle. No more stunted tins of
condensed milk, no more homemade soybean milk,” I said.
Amaka laughed, a hearty laugh that showed her gap. “You’re funny.”
I had never heard that before. I saved it for later, to ruminate over and
over that I had made her laugh, that I could make her laugh.
The rains came then, pouring down in strong sheets that made it
impossible to see the garages across the yard. The sky and rain and ground
merged into one silver-colored film that seemed to go on and on. We dashed
back to the flat and placed buckets on the verandah to catch the rainwater
and watched them fill rapidly. All the children ran out to the yard in their
shorts, twirling and dancing, because this was clean rain, the kind that did
not come with dust, that did not leave brown stains on clothes. It stopped as
quickly as it had started, and the sun came out again, mildly, as if yawning
after a nap. The buckets were full; we fished out floating leaves and twigs
and took the buckets in.
I saw Father Amadi’s car turning into the compound when we went
back out to the verandah. Obiora saw it, too, and asked, laughing, “Is it me
or does Father visit more often whenever Kambili is here?”
He and Amaka were still laughing when Father Amadi came up the
short flight of stairs. “I know Amaka just said something about me,” he

said, sweeping Chima into his arms. He stood backing the setting sun. The
sun was red, as if it were blushing, and it made his skin look radiant.
I watched how Chima clung to him, how Amaka’s and Obiora’s eyes
shone as they looked up at him. Amaka was asking him about his
missionary work in Germany, but I did not hear much of what she said. I
was not listening. I felt so many things churning inside me, emotions that
made my stomach growl and swirl.
“Do you see Kambili bothering me like this?” Father Amadi asked
Amaka. He was looking at me, and I knew he had said that to include me, to
get my attention.
“The white missionaries brought us their god,” Amaka was saying.
“Which was the same color as them, worshiped in their language and
packaged in the boxes they made. Now that we take their god back to them,
shouldn’t we at least repackage it?”
Father Amadi smirked and said, “We go mostly to Europe and
America, where they are losing priests. So there is really no indigenous
culture to pacify, unfortunately.”
“Father, be serious!” Amaka was laughing.
“Only if you will try to be more like Kambili and not bother me so
much.”
The phone started to ring, and Amaka made a face at him before
walking into the flat.
Father Amadi sat down next to me. “You look worried,” he said.
Before I could think of what to say, he reached out and slapped my lower
leg. He opened his palm to show me the bloody, squashed mosquito. He had
cupped his palm so that it would not hurt too much and yet would kill the
mosquito. “It looked so happy feeding on you,” he said, watching me.
“Thank you,” I said.
He reached out and wiped the spot on my leg with a finger. His finger
felt warm and alive. I did not realize that my cousins had left; now the
verandah was so silent I could hear the sound of the raindrops sliding off
the leaves.
“So tell me what you’re thinking about,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What you think will always matter to me, Kambili.”

I stood up and walked to the garden. I plucked off yellow allamanda
flowers, still wet, and slid them over my fingers, as I had seen Chima do. It
was like wearing a scented glove. “I was thinking about my father. I don’t
know what will happen when we go back.”
“Has he called?”
“Yes. Jaja refused to go to the phone, and I did not go, either.”
“Did you want to?” He asked gently. It was not what I expected him to
ask.
“Yes,” I whispered, so Jaja wouldn’t hear, although he was not even in
the area. I did want to talk to Papa, to hear his voice, to tell him what I had
eaten and what I had prayed about so that he would approve, so that he
would smile so much his eyes would crinkle at the edges. And yet, I did not
want to talk to him; I wanted to leave with Father Amadi, or with Aunty
Ifeoma, and never come back. “School starts in two weeks, and Aunty
Ifeoma might be gone then,” I said. “I don’t know what we will do. Jaja
does not talk about tomorrow or next week.”
Father Amadi walked over to me, standing so close that I if I puffed
out my belly, it would touch his body. He took my hand in his, carefully slid
one flower off my finger and slid it onto his. “Your aunt thinks you and Jaja
should go to boarding school. I am going to Enugu next week to talk to
Father Benedict; I know your father listens to him. I will ask him to
convince your father about boarding school so you and Jaja can start next
term. It will be fine, inugo?”
I nodded and looked away. I believed him, that it would be fine,
because he said so. I thought then of catechism classes, about chanting the
answer to a question, an answer that was “because he has said it and his
word is true.” I could not remember the question.
“Look at me, Kambili.”
I was afraid to look into the warm brownness of his eyes, I was afraid I
would swoon, that I would throw my hands around him and lace my fingers
together behind his neck and refuse to let go. I turned.
“Is this the flower you can suck? The one with the sweet juices?” he
asked. He had slid the allamanda off his finger and was examining its
yellow petals.
I smiled. “No. It’s ixora you suck.”
He threw the flower away and made a wry face. “Oh.”

I laughed. I laughed because the allamanda flowers were so yellow. I
laughed imagining how bitter their white juices would taste if Father Amadi
had really sucked them. I laughed because Father Amadi’s eyes were so
brown I could see my reflection in them.

THAT NIGHT WHEN I BATHED, with a bucket half full of rainwater, I did
not scrub my left hand, the hand that Father Amadi had held gently to slide
the flower off my finger. I did not heat the water, either, because I was
afraid that the heating coil would make the rainwater lose the scent of the
sky. I sang as I bathed. There were more earthworms in the bathtub, and I
left them alone, watching the water carry them arid send them down the
drain.

The breeze following the rain was so cool that I wore a sweater
and Aunty Ifeoma wore a longsleeved shirt, although she usually walked
around the house in only a wrapper. We were all sitting on the verandah,
talking, when Father Amadi’s car nosed its way to the front of the flat.
“You said you would be very busy today, Father,” Obiora said.
“I say these things to justify being fed by the church,” Father Amadi
said. He looked tired. He handed Amaka a piece of paper and told her he
had written some suitably boring names on it, that she had only to choose
one and he would leave. After the bishop used it in confirming her, she need
never even mention the name again. Father Amadi rolled his eyes, speaking
with a painstaking slowness, and although Amaka laughed, she did not take
the paper.
“I told you I am not taking an English name, Father,” she said.
“And have I asked you why?”
“Why do I have to?”
“Because it is the way it’s done. Let’s forget if it’s right or wrong for
now,” Father Amadi said, and I noticed the shadows under his eyes.
“When the missionaries first came, they didn’t think Igbo names were
good enough. They insisted that people take English names to be baptized.
Shouldn’t we be moving ahead?”
“It’s different now, Amaka, don’t make this what it’s not,” Father
Amadi said, calmly. “Nobody has to use the name. Look at me. I’ve always
used my Igbo name, but I was baptized Michael and confirmed Victor.”
Aunty Ifeoma looked up from the forms she was going through.
“Amaka, ngwa, pick a name and let Father Amadi go and do his work.”
“But what’s the point, then?” Amaka said to Father Amadi, as if she
had not heard her mother. “What the church is saying is that only an English
name will make your confirmation valid. ‘Chiamaka’ says God is beautiful.
‘Chima’ says God knows best, ‘Chiebuka’ says God is the greatest. Don’t
they all glorify God as much as ‘Paul’ and ‘Peter’ and ‘Simon’?”
Aunty Ifeoma was getting annoyed; I knew by her raised voice, by her
snappy tone. “O gini! You don’t have to prove a senseless point here! Just
do it and get confirmed, nobody says you have to use the name!”
But Amaka refused. “Ekwerom,” she said to Aunty Ifeoma—I do not
agree. Then she walked into her room and turned her music on very loud

until Aunty Ifeoma knocked on the door and shouted that Amaka was
asking for a slap if she did not turn it down right away. Amaka turned the
music down. Father Amadi left, with a bemused sort of smile on his face.
That evening, tempers cooled and we had dinner together, but there
was not much laughter. And the next day, Easter Sunday, Amaka did not
join the rest of the young people who wore all white and carried lit candles,
with folded newspapers to trap the melting wax. They all had pieces of
paper pinned to their clothes, with names written on them. Paul. Mary.
James. Veronica. Some of the girls looked like brides, and I remembered
my own confirmation, how Papa had said I was a bride, Christ’s bride, and I
had been surprised because I thought the Church was Christ’s bride.

AUNTY IFEOMA WANTED to go on pilgrimage to Aokpe. She was not sure
why she suddenly wanted to go, she told us, probably the thought that she
might be gone for a long time. Amaka and I said we would go with her. But
Jaja said he would not go, then was stonily silent as if he dared anyone to
ask him why. Obiora said he would stay back, too, with Chima. Aunty
Ifeoma did not seem to mind. She smiled and said that since we didn’t have
a male, she would ask Father Amadi if he wanted to accompany us.
“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.
“Mom, how did it go? Did you get it?”
“I got it,” Aunty Ifeoma said, coming onto the verandah.
“You got the visa!” Obiora screamed, and Chima promptly repeated
him, rushing over to hug his mother. Amaka and Jaja and I did not stand;
we said welcome to Aunty Ifeoma and watched her go inside to change.
She came out soon, with a wrapper tied casually around her chest. The
wrapper that stopped above her calves would stop above the ankles of an
average-size woman. She sat down and asked Obiora to get her a glass of
water.
“You do not look happy, Aunty,” Jaja said.

“Oh, nna m, I am. Do you know how many people they refuse? A
woman next to me cried until I thought that blood would run down her
cheeks. She asked them, ‘How can you refuse me a visa? I have shown you
that I have money in the bank. How can you say I will not come back? I
have property here, I have property.’ She kept saying that over and over: ‘I
have property.’ I think she had wanted to attend her sister’s wedding in
America.”
“Why did they refuse her?” Obiora asked.
“I don’t know. If they are in a good mood, they will give you a visa, if
not, they will refuse you. It is what happens when you are worthless in
somebody’s eyes. We are like footballs that they can kick in any direction
they want to.”
“When are we leaving?” Amaka asked, tiredly, and I could tell that
right now she did not care about the woman who had nearly cried blood or
about Nigerians being kicked around or about anything at all.
Aunty Ifeoma drank the whole glass of water before speaking. “We
have to move out of this flat in two weeks. I know they are waiting to see
that I don’t, so they can send security men to throw my things out on the
street.”
“You mean we leave Nigeria in two weeks?” Amaka asked, shrilly.
“Am I a magician, eh?” Aunty Ifeoma retorted. The humor was
lacking in her tone. There was nothing in her tone to speak of, really, except
for fatigue. “I have to get the money for our tickets first. They are not
cheap. I will have to ask your Uncle Eugene to help, so I think we will go to
Enugu with Kambili and Jaja, perhaps next week. We will stay in Enugu
until we are ready to leave, that will also give me an opportunity to talk to
your Uncle Eugene about Kambili and Jaja going to boarding school.”
Aunty Ifeoma turned to Jaja and me. “I will convince your father in any
way I can. Father Amadi has offered to ask Father Benedict to talk to your
father, too. I think it is the best thing for you both now, to go to school away
from home.”
I nodded. Jaja got up and walked into the flat. Finality hung in the air,
heavy and hollow.

FATHER AMADI’S LAST DAY sneaked up on me. He came in the morning,
smelling of that masculine cologne I had come to smell even when he was
not there, wearing the same boyish smile, wearing the same soutane.
Obiora looked up at him and intoned, “From darkest Africa now come
missionaries who will reconvert the West.”
Father Amadi started to laugh. “Obiora, whoever gives you those
heretical books should stop.”
His laugh was the same, too. Nothing seemed to have changed about
him, yet my new, fragile life was about to break into pieces. Anger
suddenly filled me, constricting my air passages, pressing my nostrils shut.
Anger was alien and refreshing. With my eyes, I traced the lines of his lips,
the flare of his nose, as he spoke to Aunty Ifeoma and my cousins, all the
while nursing my anger. Finally, he asked me to walk him to the car.
“I have to join the chaplaincy council members for lunch; they are
cooking for me. But come and spend an hour or two with me, while I do the
final cleaning up at the chaplaincy office,” he said.
“No.”
He stopped to stare at me. “Why?”
“No. I don’t want to.”
I was standing with my back to his car. He moved toward me and
stood in front of me. “Kambili,” he said.
I wanted to ask him to say my name in a different way because he did
not have the right to say it the old way. Nothing should be the same, was the
same anymore. He was leaving. I breathed through my mouth now. “The
first day you took me to the stadium, did Aunty Ifeoma ask you to?” I
asked.
“She was worried about you, that you could not hold a conversation
with even the children upstairs. But she didn’t ask me to take you.” He
reached out to straighten the sleeve of my shirt. “I wanted to take you. And
after that first day, I wanted to take you with me every day.”
I bent down to pick up a grass stalk, narrow like a green needle.
“Kambili,” he said. “Look at me.”
But I did not look at him. I kept my eyes on the grass in my hand as if
it held a code I could decipher by concentrated staring, as if it could explain
to me why I wished he had said he didn’t want to take me even that first

time so that I would have a reason to be angrier, so that I would not have
this urge to cry and cry.
He climbed into his car and started it. “I will come back and see you
this evening.”
I stared at his car until it disappeared down the slope that led to
Ikejiani Avenue. I was still staring when Amaka walked over to me. She
placed her arm lightly on my shoulder.
“Obiora says you must be having sex, or something close to sex, with
Father Amadi. We have never seen Father Amadi look so bright-eyed.”
Amaka was laughing.
I did not know whether or not she was serious. I did not want to dwell
on how strange it felt discussing whether or not I had had sex with Father
Amadi.
“Maybe when we are in the university you will join me in agitating for
optional celibacy in the priesthood?” Amaka asked. “Or maybe fornication
should be permitted all priests once in a while. Say, once a month?”
“Amaka, please stop it.” I turned and walked to the verandah.
“Do you want him to leave the priesthood?” Amaka sounded more
serious now.
“He will never leave.”
Amaka tilted her head thoughtfully, and then smiled. “You never
know,” she said, before walking into the living room.
I copied Father Amadi’s German address over and over in my
notebook. I was copying it again, trying at different writing styles, when he
came back. He took the notebook from me and closed it. I wanted to say, “I
will miss you” but instead I said, “I will write you.”
“I will write you first,” he said.
I did not know that tears slipped down my cheeks until Father Amadi
reached out and wiped them away, running his open palm over my face.
Then he enclosed me in his arms and held me.

AUNTY IFEOMA COOKED DINNER for Father Amadi, and we all ate the rice
and beans at the dining table. I knew that there was much laughter, much
talk about the stadium and about remembering, but I did not feel that I was

involved. I was busy locking little parts of me up, because I would not need
them if Father Amadi was not here.
I did not sleep well that night; I tossed around so often that I woke
Amaka up. I wanted to tell her about my dream where a man chased me
down a rocky path littered with bruised allamanda leaves. First the man was
Father Amadi, his soutane flying behind him, then it was Papa, in the floor-
length gray sack he wore when he distributed ash on Ash Wednesday. But I
didn’t tell her. I let her hold and soothe me like a little child, until I fell
asleep. I was glad to wake up, glad to see morning stream in through the
window in shimmering strips the color of a ripe orange.

THE PACKING WAS DONE; the hallway looked oddly big now that the
bookshelves were gone. In Aunty Ifeoma’s room, only a few things
remained on the floor, the things we would use until we all left for Enugu: a
bag of rice, a tin of milk, a tin of Boumvita. The other cartons and boxes
and books had been cleared up or given away. When Aunty Ifeoma gave
some clothes to the neighbors, the woman from the flat upstairs told her,
“Mh, why won’t you give me that blue dress you wear to church? After all,
you will get more in America!”
Aunty Ifeoma had narrowed her eyes, annoyed. I was not sure if it was
because the woman was asking for the dress or because she had brought up
America. But she did not give her the blue dress.
There was restlessness in the air now, as if we had all packed
everything too quickly and too well and we needed something else to do.
“We have fuel, let’s go for a drive,” Aunty Ifeoma suggested.
“A good-bye tour of Nsukka,” Amaka said, with a wry smile.
We piled into the car. It swerved as Aunty Ifeoma turned onto the
stretch of road bordered by the faculty of engineering, and I wondered if it
would crash into the gutter and then Aunty Ifeoma would not get the fair
rate she said a man in town had offered for it. She had also said that the
money she would get for the car would pay only for Chima’s ticket, which
was half the full price of a ticket.
Since my dream, the night before, I had had a feeling that something
big would happen. Father Amadi would come back; it had to be what would
happen. Maybe there was a mistake in his departure date; maybe he had

postponed his trip. So as Aunty Ifeoma drove, I looked at the cars on the
road, seeking Father Amadi, looking for that pastel-colored small Toyota.
Aunty Ifeoma stopped at the foot of Odim hill and said, “Let’s climb to
the top.”
I was surprised. I was not sure Aunty Ifeoma had planned to have us
climb up the hill; it sounded like something she had said on impulse. Obiora
suggested we have a picnic up the hill, and Aunty Ifeoma said it was a good
idea. We drove to town and bought moi-moi and bottles of Ribena from
Eastern Shop and then came back to the hill. The climb was easy because
there were many zigzagging paths. There was a fresh smell in the air and,
once in a while, a crackling in the long grass that bordered the paths.
“The grasshoppers make that sound with their wings,” Obiora said. He
stopped by a mighty anthill, with ridges running across the red mud as if
they were deliberate designs. “Amaka, you should paint something like
this,” he said. But Amaka did not respond; instead, she started to run up the
hill. Chima ran after her. Jaja joined them. Aunty Ifeoma looked at me.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked, and she raised her wrapper, almost
above her knees, and ran after Jaja. I took off, too, feeling the wind rush
past my ears. Running made me think of Father Amadi, made me remember
the way his eyes had lingered on my bare legs. I ran past Aunty Ifeoma,
past Jaja and Chima, and I got to the top of the hill at about the same time
as Amaka.
“Hei!” Amaka said, looking at me. “You should be a sprinter.” She
flopped down on the grass, breathing hard. I sat next to her and brushed
away a tiny spider on my leg. Aunty Ifeoma had stopped running before she
got to the top of the hill. “Nne,” she said to me. “I will find you a trainer,
eh, there is big money in athletics.”
I laughed. It seemed so easy now, laughter. So many things seemed
easy now. Jaja was laughing, too, as was Amaka, and we were all sitting on
the grass, waiting for Obiora to come up to the top. He walked up slowly,
holding something that turned out to be a grasshopper. “It’s so strong,” he
said. “I can feel the pressure of its wings.” He spread his palm and watched
the grasshopper fly off.
We took our food into the damaged building tucked into the other side
of the hill. It may have once been a storeroom, but its roof and doors had
been blown off during the civil war years ago, and it had remained that way.

It looked ghostly, and I did not want to eat there, although Obiora said
people spread mats on the charred floors to have picnics all the time. He
was examining the writings on the walls of the building, and he read some
of them aloud. “Obinna loves Nnenna forever.” “Emeka and Unoma did it
here.” “One love Chimsimdi and Obi.”
I was relieved when Aunty Ifeoma said we would eat outside on the
grass, since we did not have a mat. As we ate the moi-moi and drank the
Ribena, I watched a small car crawl around the base of the hill. I tried to
focus, to see who was inside, even though it was too far away. The shape of
the head looked very much like Father Amadi’s. I ate quickly and wiped my
mouth with the back of my hand, smoothed my hair. I didn’t want to look
untidy when he appeared.
Chima wanted to race down the other side of the hill, the side that
didn’t have many paths, but Aunty Ifeoma said it was too steep. So he sat
down and slithered on his behind down the hill. Aunty Ifeoma called out,
“You will use your own hands to wash your shorts, do you hear me?”
I knew that, before, she would have scolded him some more and
probably made him stop. We all sat and watched him slide down the hill,
the brisk wind making our eyes water.
The sun had turned red and was about to fall when Aunty Ifeoma said
we had to leave. As we trudged down the hill, I stopped hoping that Father
Amadi would appear.

WE WERE ALL in the living room, playing cards, when the phone rang
that evening.
“Amaka, please answer it,” Aunty Ifeoma said, even though she was
closest to the door.
“I can bet it’s for you, Mom,” Amaka said, focused on her cards. “It’s
one of those people who want you to dash them our plates and our pots and
even the underwear we have on.”
Aunty Ifeoma got up laughing and hurried to the phone. The TV was
off and we were all silently absorbed in our cards, so I heard Aunty
Ifeoma’s scream clearly. A short, strangled scream. For a short moment, I
prayed that the American embassy had revoked the visa, before I rebuked
myself and asked God to disregard my prayers. We all rushed to the room.

“Hei, Chi m o! nwunye m! Hei!” Aunty Ifeoma was standing by the
table, her free hand placed on her head in the way that people do when they
are in shock. What had happened to Mama? She was holding the phone out;
I knew she wanted to give it to Jaja, but I was closer and I grasped it. My
hand shook so much the earpiece slid away from my ear to my temple.
Mama’s low voice floated across the phone line and quickly quelled
my shaking hand. “Kambili, it’s your father. They called me from the
factory, they found him lying dead on his desk.”
I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. “Eh?”
“It’s your father. They called me from the factory, they found him
lying dead on his desk.” Mama sounded like a recording. I imagined her
saying the same thing to Jaja, in the same exact tone. My ears filled with
liquid. Although I had heard her right, heard her say he was found dead on
his office desk, I asked, “Did he get a letter bomb? Was it a letter bomb?”
Jaja grabbed the phone. Aunty Ifeoma led me to the bed. I sat down
and stared at the bag of rice that leaned against the bedroom wall, and I
knew that I would always remember that bag of rice, the brown
interweaving of jute, the words ADADA LONG GRAIN on it, the way it slumped
against the wall, near the table. I had never considered the possibility that
Papa would die, that Papa could die. He was different from Ade Coker,
from all the other people they had killed. He had seemed immortal.

I sat with Jaja in our living room, staring at the space where the
étagère had been, where the ballet-dancing figurines had been. Mama was
upstairs, packing Papa’s things. I had gone up to help and saw her kneeling
on the plush rug, holding his red pajamas pressed to her face. She did not
look up when I came in; she said, “Go, nne, go and stay with Jaja,” the silk
muffling her voice.
Outside, the rain came down in slants, hitting the closed windows with
a furious rhythm. It would hurl down cashews and mangoes from the trees
and they would start to rot in the humid earth, giving out that sweet-and-
sour scent.
The compound gates were locked. Mama had told Adamu not to open
the gates to all the people who wanted to throng in for mgbalu, to
commiserate with us. Even members of our umunna who had come from
Abba were turned away. Adamu said it was unheard of, to turn
sympathizers away. But Mama told him we wished to mourn privately, that
they could go to offer Masses for the repose of Papa’s soul. I had never
heard Mama talk to Adamu that way; I had never even heard Mama talk to
Adamu at all.
“Madam said you should drink some Bournvita,” Sisi said, coming
into the living room. She was carrying a tray that held the same cups Papa
had always used to drink his tea. I could smell the thyme and curry that
clung to her. Even after she had a bath, she still smelled like that. It was
only Sisi who had cried in the household, loud sobs that had quickly quieted
in the face of our bewildered silence.
I turned to Jaja after she left and tried speaking with my eyes. But
Jaja’s eyes were blank, like a window with its shutter drawn across.
“Won’t you drink some Bournvita?” I asked, finally.
He shook his head. “Not with those cups.” He shifted on his seat and
added, “I should have taken care of Mama. Look how Obiora balances
Aunty Ifeoma’s family on his head, and I am older than he is. I should have
taken care of Mama.”
“God knows best,” I said. “God works in mysterious ways.” And I
thought how Papa would be proud that I had said that, how he would
approve of my saying that.

Jaja laughed. It sounded like a series of snorts strung together. “Of
course God does. Look what He did to his faithful servant Job, even to His
own son. But have you ever wondered why? Why did He have to murder
his own son so we would be saved? Why didn’t He just go ahead and save
us?”
I took off my slippers. The cold marble floor drew the heat from my
feet. I wanted to tell Jaja that my eyes tingled with unshed tears, that I still
listened for, wanted to hear, Papa’s footsteps on the stairs. That there were
painfully scattered bits inside me that I could never put back because the
places they fit into were gone. Instead, I said, “St. Agnes will be full for
Papa’s funeral Mass.”
Jaja did not respond.
The phone started to ring. It rang for a long time; the caller must have
dialed a few times before Mama finally answered it. She came into the
living room a short while later. The wrapper casually tied across her chest
hung low, exposing the birthmark, a little black bulb, above her left breast.
“They did an autopsy,” she said. “They have found the poison in your
father’s body.” She sounded as though the poison in Papa’s body was
something we all had known about, something we had put in there to be
found, the way it was done in the books I read where white people hid
Easter eggs for their children to find.
“Poison?” I said.
Mama tightened her wrapper, then went to the windows; she pushed
the drapes aside, checking that the louvers were shut to keep the rain from
splashing into the house. Her movements were calm and slow. When she
spoke, her voice was just as calm and slow. “I started putting the poison in
his tea before I came to Nsukka. Sisi got it for me; her uncle is a powerful
witch doctor.”
For a long, silent moment I could think of nothing. My mind was
blank, I was blank. Then I thought of taking sips of Papa’s tea, love sips, the
scalding liquid that burned his love onto my tongue. “Why did you put it in
his tea?” I asked Mama, rising. My voice was loud. I was almost screaming.
“Why in his tea?”
But Mama did not answer. Not even when I stood up and shook her
until Jaja yanked me away. Not even when Jaja wrapped his arms around

me and turned to include her but she moved away.

THE POLICEMEN CAME a few hours later. They said they wanted to ask
some questions. Somebody at St. Agnes Hospital had contacted them, and
they had a copy of the autopsy report with them. Jaja did not wait for their
questions; he told them he had used rat poison, that he put it in Papa’s tea.
They allowed him to change his shirt before they took him away.

A DIFFERENT SILENCE
The Present

The roads to the prison are familiar. I know the houses and shops,
I know the faces of the women who sell oranges and bananas just before
you turn into the pothole-filled road that leads to the prison yard.
“You want to buy oranges, Kambili?” Celestine asks, slowing the car
to a crawl, as the hawkers start to wave and call out to us. His voice is
gentle; Mama says it is the reason she hired him after she asked Kevin to
leave. That and also that he does not have a dagger-shape scar on his neck.
“What we have in the boot should do,” I say. I turn to Mama. “Do you
want us to buy anything here?”
Mama shakes her head, and her scarf starts to slip off. She reaches out
to knot it again as loosely as before. Her wrapper is just as loose around her
waist, and she ties and reties it often, giving her the air of the unkempt
women in Ogbete market, who let their wrappers unravel so that everyone
sees the hole-riddled slips they have on underneath.
She does not seem to mind that she looks this way; she doesn’t even
seem to know. She has been different ever since Jaja was locked up, since
she went about telling people that she killed Papa, that she put the poison in
his tea. She even wrote letters to newspapers. But nobody listened to her;
they still don’t. They think grief and denial—that her husband is dead and
that her son is in prison—have turned her into this vision of a painfully
bony body, of skin speckled with blackheads the size of watermelon seeds.
Perhaps it is why they forgive her for not wearing all black or all white for a
year. Perhaps it is why nobody criticized her for not attending the first- and
second-year memorial Masses, for not cutting her hair.
“Try and make your scarf tighter, Mama,” I say, reaching out to touch
her shoulder.
Mama shrugs, still looking out of the window. “It is tight enough.”
Celestine is looking at us in the rearview mirror. His eyes are gentle.
He once suggested to me that we take Mama to a dibia in his hometown, a
man who is an expert in “these things.” I was not sure what Celestine meant
by “these things,” if he was suggesting that Mama was mad, but I thanked
him and told him she would not want to go. He means well, Celestine. I
have seen the way he looks at Mama sometimes, the way he helps her get
out of the car, and I know he wishes he could make her whole.

Mama and I hardly ever come to the prison together. Usually Celestine
takes me a day or two before he takes her, every week. She prefers it, I
think. But today is different, special—we have finally been told, for certain,
that Jaja will get out.
After the Head of State died months ago—they say he died atop a
prostitute, foaming at the mouth and jerking—we thought Jaja’s release
would be immediate, that our lawyers would quickly work something out.
Especially with the prodemocracy groups demonstrating, calling for a
government investigation into Papa’s death, insisting that the old regime
killed him. But it took a few weeks before the interim civilian government
announced that it would release all prisoners of conscience, and weeks
more for our lawyers to get Jaja on the list. His name is number four on the
list of more than two hundred. He will be out next week.
They told us yesterday, two of our most recent lawyers; both of them
have the prestigious SAN, for senior advocate of Nigeria, after their names.
They came to our house with the news and with a bottle of champagne tied
with a pink ribbon. After they left, Mama and I did not talk about it. We
went about carrying, but not sharing, the same new peace, the same hope,
concrete for the first time.
There is so much more that Mama and I do not talk about. We do not
talk about the huge checks we have written, for bribes to judges and
policemen and prison guards. We do not talk about how much money we
have, even after half of Papa’s estate went to St. Agnes and to the fostering
of missions in the church. And we have never talked about finding out that
Papa had anonymously donated to the children’s hospitals and motherless
babies’ homes and disabled veterans from the civil war. There is still so
much that we do not say with our voices, that we do not turn into words.
“Please put in the Fela tape, Celestine,” I say, leaning back on the seat.
The brash voice soon fills the car. I turn to see if Mama minds, but she is
looking straight ahead at the front seat; I doubt that she can hear anything.
Most times, her answers are nods and shakes of the head, and I wonder if
she really heard. I used to ask Sisi to talk to her, because she would sit with
Sisi in the living room for long hours, but she said Mama would not reply to
her, that Mama simply sat and stared. When Sisi got married last year,
Mama gave her cartons and cartons of china and Sisi sat on the floor of the
kitchen, crying loudly, while Mama watched her. Sisi comes in now, once in

a while, to instruct our new steward, Okon, and to ask if Mama needs
anything. Mama usually says nothing, just shakes her head while rocking
herself.
Last month, when I told her I was going to Nsukka, she did not say
anything, either, did not ask me why, though I don’t know anybody in
Nsukka anymore. She simply nodded. Celestine drove me, and we arrived
around noon, just about when the sun was changing to the searing sun I
have long imagined can suck the moisture from bone marrow. Most of the
lawns on the university grounds are overgrown now; the long grasses stick
up like green arrows. The statue of the preening lion no longer gleams.
I asked the new family in Aunty Ifeoma’s flat if I could come in, and
although they looked at me strangely, they asked me in and offered me a
glass of water. It would be warm, they said, because there was no power.
The blades of the ceiling fan were encrusted with woolly dust, so I knew
there had been no power in a while or the dust would have flown away as
the fan turned. I drank all the water, sitting on a sofa with uneven holes at
the sides. I gave them the fruits I bought at Ninth Mile and apologized
because the heat in the boot had blackened the bananas.
As we drove back to Enugu, I laughed loudly, above Fela’s stringent
singing. I laughed because Nsukka’s untarred roads coat cars with dust in
the harmattan and with sticky mud in the rainy season. Because the tarred
roads spring potholes like surprise presents and the air smells of hills and
history and the sunlight scatters the sand and turns it into gold dust.
Because Nsukka could free something deep inside your belly that would
rise up to your throat and come out as a freedom song. As laughter.
“We are here,” Celestine says.
We are at the prison compound. The bleak walls have unsightly
patches of blue-green mold. Jaja is back in his old cell, so crowded that
some people have to stand so that others can lie down. Their toilet is one
black plastic bag, and they struggle over who will take it out each
afternoon, because that person gets to see sunlight for a brief time. Jaja told
me once that the men do not always bother to use the bag, especially the
angry men. He does not mind sleeping with mice and cockroaches, but he
does mind having another man’s feces in his face. He was in a better cell
until last month, with books and a mattress all to himself, because our
lawyers knew the right people to bribe. But the wardens moved him here

after he spat in a guard’s face for no reason at all, after they stripped him
and flogged him with koboko. Although I do not believe Jaja would do
something like that unprovoked, I have no other version of the story
because Jaja will not talk to me about it. He did not even show me the welts
on his back, the ones the doctor we bribed in told me were puffy and
swollen like long sausages. But I see other parts of Jaja, the parts I do not
need to be shown, like his shoulders.
Those shoulders that bloomed in Nsukka, that grew wide and capable,
have sagged in the thirty-one months that he has been here. Almost three
years. If somebody gave birth when Jaja first came here, the child would be
talking now, would be in nursery school. Sometimes, I look at him and cry,
and he shrugs and tells me that Oladipupo, the chief of his cell—they have a
system of hierarchy in the cells—has been awaiting trial for eight years.
Jaja’s official status, all this time, has been Awaiting Trial.
Amaka used to write the office of the Head of State, even the Nigerian
Ambassador in America, to complain about the poor state of Nigeria’s
justice system. She said nobody acknowledged the letters but still it was
important to her that she do something. She does not tell Jaja any of this in
her letters to him. I read them—they are chatty and matter-of-fact. They do
not mention Papa and they hardly mention prison. In her last letter, she told
him how Aokpe had been covered in a secular American magazine; the
writer had sounded pessimistic that the Blessed Virgin Mary could be
appearing at all, especially in Nigeria: all that corruption and all that heat.
Amaka said she had written the magazine to tell them what she thought. I
expected no less, of course.
She says she understands why Jaja does not write. What will he say?
Aunty Ifeoma doesn’t write Jaja, she sends him cassette tape recordings of
their voices, instead. Sometimes, he lets me play them on my cassette
player when I visit, and other times, he asks me not to. Aunty Ifeoma writes
to Mama and me, though. She writes about her two jobs, one at a
community college and one at a pharmacy, or drugstore, as they call it. She
writes about the huge tomatoes and the cheap bread. Mostly, though, she
writes about things that she misses and things she longs for, as if she
ignores the present to dwell on the past and future. Sometimes, her letters
go on and on until the ink gets smudgy and I am not always sure what she is
talking about. There are people, she once wrote, who think that we cannot

rule ourselves because the few times we tried, we failed, as if all the others
who rule themselves today got it right the first time. It is like telling a
crawling baby who tries to walk, and then falls back on his buttocks, to stay
there. As if the adults walking past him did not all crawl, once.
Although I was interested in what she wrote, so much that I
memorized most of it, I still do not know why she wrote it to me.
Amaka’s letters are often quite as long, and she never fails to write, in
every single one, how everybody is growing fat, how Chima “outfats” his
clothes in a month. Sure, there has never been a power outage and hot water
runs from the tap, but we don’t laugh anymore, she writes, because we
don’t have the time to laugh, because we don’t even see one another.
Obiora’s letters are the cheeriest and the most irregular. He has a
scholarship to a private school where, he says, he is praised and not
punished for challenging his teachers.
“Let me do it,” Celestine says. He has opened the boot, and I am about
to bring out the plastic bag of fruits and the cloth bag with the food and
plates.
“Thank you,” I say, moving aside.
Celestine carries the bags and leads the way into the prison building.
Mama trails behind. The policeman at the front desk has a toothpick stuck
in his mouth. His eyes are jaundiced, so yellow they look dyed. The desk is
bare except for a black phone, a fat, tattered logbook, and a pile of watches
and handkerchiefs and necklaces crumpled down on one corner.
“How are you, sister?” he says when he sees me, beaming, although
his eyes are focused on the bag in Celestine’s hand. “Ah! You come with
madam today? Good afternoon, madam.”
I smile, and Mama nods vacuously. Celestine places the bag of fruit on
the counter in front of the guard. Inside is a magazine with an envelope
stuffed full of crisp naira notes, fresh from the bank.
The man puts his toothpick down and grabs the bag. It disappears
behind the desk. Then he leads Mama and me to an airless room with
benches on both sides of a low table. “One hour,” he mutters before leaving.
We sit on the same side of the table, not close enough to touch. I know
that Jaja will appear soon, and I try to prepare myself. It has not become
any easier for me, seeing him here, even after so long. It will be even harder
with Mama sitting next to me. It will be hardest because we finally have

good news, because the emotions we used to hold back are dissolving and
new ones are forming. I take a deep breath and hold it.
Jaja will come home soon, Father Amadi wrote in his last letter, which
is tucked in my bag. You must believe this. And I believed it, I believed
him, even though we had not heard from the lawyers and were not sure. I
believe what Father Amadi says; I believe the firm slant of his handwriting.
Because he has said it and his word is true.
I always carry his latest letter with me until a new one comes. When I
told Amaka that I do this, she teased me in her reply about being lovey-
dovey with Father Amadi and then drew a smiling face. But I don’t carry
his letters around because of anything lovey-dovey; there is very little
lovey-dovey, anyway. He signs off with nothing more than “as always.” He
never responds with a yes or a no when I ask if he is happy. His answer is
that he will go where the Lord sends him. He hardly even writes about his
new life, except for brief anecdotes, such as the old German lady who
refuses to shake his hand because she does not think a black man should be
her priest, or the wealthy widow who insists he have dinner with her every
night.
His letters dwell on me. I carry them around because they are long and
detailed, because they remind me of my worthiness, because they tug at my
feelings. Some months ago, he wrote that he did not want me to seek the
whys, because there are some things that happen for which we can
formulate no whys, for which whys simply do not exist and, perhaps, are
not necessary. He did not mention Papa—he hardly mentions Papa in his
letters—but I knew what he meant, I understood that he was stirring what I
was afraid to stir myself.
And I carry them with me, also, because they give me grace. Amaka
says people love priests because they want to compete with God, they want
God as a rival. But we are not rivals, God and I, we are simply sharing. I no
longer wonder if I have a right to love Father Amadi; I simply go ahead and
love him. I no longer wonder if the checks I have been writing to the
Missionary Fathers of the Blessed Way are bribes to God; I just go ahead
and write them. I no longer wonder if I chose St. Andrew’s church in Enugu
as my new church because the priest there is a Blessed Way Missionary
Father as Father Amadi is; I just go.

“Did we bring the knives?” Mama asks. Her voice is loud. She is
setting out the cylindrical food flask full of jollof rice and chicken. She
places a pretty china plate down, as if she were setting a fancy table, the
kind Sisi used to set.
“Mama, Jaja doesn’t need knives,” I say. She knows Jaja always eats
right from the flask, yet she takes a dinner plate with her every time,
changes the colors and patterns weekly.
“We should have brought them, so he can cut the meat.”
“He doesn’t cut the meat, he just eats it.” I smile at Mama and reach
out to touch her arm, to calm her. She places a gleaming silver spoon and
fork on the dirt-encrusted table and leans back to survey it. The door opens,
and Jaja comes in. I brought his T-shirt, new, only two weeks ago, but
already it has brown patches like stains from cashew juice, which never
come off. As children, we ate cashews bent over so that the gushing sweet
juices did not get on our clothes. His shorts end a long way above his knees,
and I look away from the scabs on his thighs. We do not rise to hug him,
because he does not like us to.
“Mama, good afternoon. Kambili, ke kwanu?” he says. He opens the
food flask and starts to eat. I feel Mama trembling next to me, and because I
don’t want her to break down, I speak quickly. The sound of my voice may
stop her tears. “The lawyers will get you out next week.”
Jaja shrugs. Even the skin of his neck is covered with scabs that look
dry until he scratches them and the yellowish pus underneath seeps out.
Mama has bribed all kinds of ointments in and none seem to work.
“This cell has many interesting characters,” Jaja says. He spoons the
rice into his mouth as quickly as he can. His cheeks bulge as though he has
stuffed them with whole, unripe guavas.
“I mean out of prison, Jaja. Not to a different cell,” I say.
He stops chewing and stares at me silently with those eyes that have
hardened a little every month he has spent here; now they look like the bark
of a palm tree, unyielding. I even wonder if we ever really had an asusu
anya, a language of the eyes, or if I imagined it all.
“You’ll be out of here next week,” I say. “You’re coming home next
week.”
I want to hold his hand, but I know he will shake it free. His eyes are
too full of guilt to really see me, to see his reflection in my eyes, the

reflection of my hero, the brother who tried always to protect me the best he
could. He will never think that he did enough, and he will never understand
that I do not think he should have done more.
“You are not eating,” Mama says. Jaja picks up the spoon and starts to
wolf the rice down again. Silence hangs over us, but it is a different kind of
silence, one that lets me breathe. I have nightmares about the other kind, the
silence of when Papa was alive. In my nightmares, it mixes with shame and
grief and so many other things that I cannot name, and forms blue tongues
of fire that rest above my head, like Pentecost, until I wake up screaming
and sweating. I have not told Jaja that I offer Masses for Papa every
Sunday, that I want to see him in my dreams, that I want it so much I
sometimes make my own dreams, when I am neither asleep nor awake: I
see Papa, he reaches out to hug me, I reach out, too, but our bodies never
touch before something jerks me up and I realize that I cannot control even
the dreams that I have made. There is so much that is still silent between
Jaja and me. Perhaps we will talk more with time, or perhaps we never will
be able to say it all, to clothe things in words, things that have long been
naked.
“You did not tie your scarf well,” Jaja says to Mama.
I stare in amazement. Jaja has never noticed what anybody wears.
Mama hastily unties and reties her scarf—and this time, she knots it twice
and tight at the back of her head.
“Time is up!” The guard comes in the room. Jaja says a brief, distant
“Ka o di,” not making eye contact with either of us, before he lets the guard
lead him away.
“We should go to Nsukka when Jaja comes out,” I say to Mama as we
walk out of the room. I can talk about the future now.
Mama shrugs and says nothing. She is walking slowly; her limp has
become more noticeable, her body moving sideways with each step. We are
close to the car when she turns to me and says, “Thank you, nne.” It is one
of the few times in the past three years that she has spoken without being
first spoken to. I do not want to think about why she is thanking me or what
it means. I only know that, all of a sudden, I no longer smell the damp and
urine of the prison yard.
“We will take Jaja to Nsukka first, and then we’ll go to America to
visit Aunty Ifeoma,” I say. “We’ll plant new orange trees in Abba when we

come back, and Jaja will plant purple hibiscus, too, and I’ll plant ixora so
we can suck the juices of the flowers.” I am laughing. I reach out and place
my arm around Mama’s shoulder and she leans toward me and smiles.
Above, clouds like dyed cotton wool hang low, so low I feel I can
reach out and squeeze the moisture from them. The new rains will come
down soon.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Kenechukwu Adichie, “baby” brother and best friend, draft reader and story
mailer—for sharing each early “no,” for making me laugh.
Tokunbo Oremule, Chisom and Amaka Sony-Afoekelu, Chinedum
Adichie, Kamsiyonna Adichie, Arinze Maduka, Ijeoma and Obinna
Maduka, Uche and Sony Afoekelu, Chukwunwike and Tinuke Adichie,
Okechukwu Adichie, Nneka Adichie Okeke, Bee and Wasp, all the
Odigwes, all the Adichies—for being my pillars, for propping me up. Uju
Egonu and Urenna Egonu, sisters more than friends—for proving that water
can be just as thick as blood; for getting it, always.
Charles Methot—for being so solidly there.
Ada Echetebu, Binyavanga Wainaina, Arinze Ufoeze, Austin Nwosu,
Ikechukwu Okorie, Carolyn DeChristopher, Nnake Nweke, Amaechi
Awurum, Ebele Nwala—for beating my drums.
Antonia Fusco—for editing so wisely and so warmly, for that phone
call that nearly had me doing cartwheels.
Djana Pearson Morris, my agent—for believing.
The people and spirit of Stonecoast Writers’ Conference, Summer
2001—for that loud ovation, complete with whistles.
Friends all—for pretending to understand when I did not return phone
calls.
Thank you. Dalu nu.

P.S.
Ideas, interviews & features…

About the Author
CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE won the Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction
2007 with her novel Half of a Yellow Sun. Purple Hibiscus is her first novel
and was shortlisted for the Orange Prize 2004 and the John Llewellyn Rhys
Prize, longlisted for the Booker Prize and was winner of the Hurston/Wright
Legacy award for debut fiction.
Adichie was born in Nigeria in 1977. She is from Abba, in Anambra
State, but grew up in the university town of Nsukka, where she attended
primary and secondary schools. Her short fiction has been published in
literary journals including Granta, and won the International PEN/David
Wong award in 2003. She was a Hodder fellow at Princeton University for
the 2005–06 academic year. She lives in Nigeria.
Profile of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
by Clare Garner

FOR AS LONG AS she can remember, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s hero has
been the internationally acclaimed Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe. She
grew up in the house previously occupied by him and first read his novels at
the precocious age of ten. Arrow of God is still her favourite book and, to
this day, she returns to his work whenever she wants to rekindle her writing
spirit.
So, picture the thrill when she received an e-mail saying that he
admired Purple Hibiscus. It was early September and Adichie was sitting in
a dusty cyber cafe in Nsukka, where she grew up. She was becoming
impatient with the mountain of e-mails and nearly passed over what turned
out to be the highest accolade of her life. It read: ‘Just a short note to let you
know that our family has been following your career and rejoice with you

on every success! Dad has read Purple Hibiscus and liked it very much.
Give him a call at…’ It was signed by Achebe’s son. ‘It was the best e-mail
of my life,’ Adichie delights. ‘My idol was telling me I was doing a good
job. I was so ecstatic. I went slightly crazy.’
With wisdom beyond her years, Adichie forbids herself to read
reviews. It is not that she fears criticism; besides, reviewers rave about her
work. She simply does not want to be distracted by what they say. ‘It would
get in the way of my being true to myself,’ she says. But feedback from
Achebe is another story. So far she has been too shy to call, but she will do
soon.

‘Reading Achebe gave me permission to write about my world.’

Adichie has been writing since the age of six. At first she crafted
stories for her mother, complete with illustrations, which were inspired by
the English children’s classics on which she was reared. ‘I didn’t visit
England until I was older, so before then I was very much writing fantasy.
Reading Achebe gave me permission to write about my world. He
transported me to a past that was both familiar and unfamiliar, a past I
imagined my great grandfather lived. Looking back, I realize that what he
did for me at the time was validate my history, make it seem worthy in
some way.’
Adichie has spent most of her life on a university campus, first in
Nigeria and then in America. Her parents both worked at the University of
Nigeria, in Nsukka: her father as Professor of Statistics and her mother as
the institution’s first female registrar. They raised Adichie and her five
siblings in a university-owned house and sent them to school on campus.
Adichie started out reading medicine there but, after a year, realized she
was only training to be a doctor because that was the done thing for high
achievers like herself. She transferred to Connecticut State University to
read Communication. ‘I love the American sense of “can do” and will
always be grateful for the fact that you can come here and feel suffused
with this sense of possibility. I couldn’t have published my novel in Nigeria
without the money to pay the publisher.’
But her heart longs for home. Indeed, Purple Hibiscus was born out of
such longing. ‘I was living in Connecticut and hadn’t been back to Nigeria

for four years. I was intensely homesick. It was winter here and terribly
cold. I looked out and saw this blanket of white and thought: “I want
home.”
‘I wanted to write about colonialism, which I think every African
writer does without meaning to. The way we are is very much the result of
colonialism – the fact that I think in English, for example.’ Her vehicle was
religion, an abiding obsession since her early teens. As a child she went to
Mass and Benediction every Sunday and loved the drama of it all: the
incense, the vibrant singing in Latin, the big hugs after the services.
Theology became her thing. ‘I feel sorry for my parents. I really wasn’t
your average teenager. Until about 19 I was in my intense period of God
searching. I read the writings of St Augustine and fat books about Church
history. I was always asking questions. I wanted to know why some people
had car accidents and some didn’t. I wanted to capture God in a bottle.’
In Eugene Achike – or Papa – Adichie created a character who tries to
prove how Christian he is by condemning his past. ‘This is very much a
theme in Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God. I wanted to write
the modern take. I wanted Papa to be a man who did horrible things but
who, ultimately, wasn’t a monster. Unless he was complex it would be easy
to dismiss him. There are lots of people who are kind and generous and
thoughtful but, in the name of religion, do all sorts of awful things.’
Now Adichie is working on her next novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, set
during the civil war of 1967-70. She is planning to move back to Nigeria,
with a possible semester of teaching in America each year. ‘I’m definitely
going to live in Nigeria,’ she says. ‘I belong there and the reason I care
about it is that I belong. It’s very important for me to matter in Nigeria, to
make some sort of difference. I want people back home to read my books,
for women to feel empowered by them, and for people to be inspired to be
writers.’ This does not seem an unrealistic ambition. It is easy to imagine
that one day it will be Adichie who is making a young Nigerian writer’s
heart leap with an e-mail congratulating them on their work. She knows
how good that feels.
LIFE at a Glance
BORN

September 1977, in Abba, Anambra State, Nigeria.
EDUCATED
University Primary School, Nsukka; University Secondary School, Nsukka;
Eastern Connecticut State University (BS summa cum laude,
Communication); Johns Hopkins University (MA, Creative Writing).
FAMILY
Adichie is the fifth of six children. She has two older sisters, two older
brothers, and a younger brother. At the age of 19 she moved to the United
States to live with her eldest sister, Ijeoma, who has become as much a
friend as sister.
CAREER
While studying for her Creative Writing masters degree, from which she
graduated in 2004, Adichie had a teaching assistant post in Expository
Writing at the university. Over the past few years she has written
extensively. Besides Purple Hibiscus, she has had short stories published in
anthologies as well as in British and American journals.
AWARDS AND PRIZES
Purple Hibiscus was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2004, and
shortlisted for the Orange Prize 2004. It also received the Hurston/Wright
Legacy Award 2004. Her short story ‘Half of a Yellow Sun’ won the
PEN/David Wong shortstory award 2003.
PREVIOUS WORKS
‘Transition to Glory’, cited as Distinguished Story, in Lorrie Moore (ed.),
The Best American Short Stories, 2004 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2004).
‘Half of a Yellow Sun’, in David Eggers (ed.), The Best American
Nonrequired Reading 2004 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2004).
‘American Embassy’, in Laura Furman (ed.), Prize Stories: The O. Henry
Awards 2003 (New York: Anchor Books, 2003).

‘Women Here Drive Buses’, in Tracy Price-Thompson and Taressa Stovall
(eds), Proverbs for the People, an anthology of African-American fiction
(New York: Kensington, 2003).
Top Ten
Favourite Books
1. Arrow of God
Chinua Achebe

2. Woman at Point Zero
Nawal El Saadawi

3. The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born
Ayi Kwei Armah

4. Efuru
Flora Nwapa

5. Reef
Romesh Gunesekera

6. Madame Bovary
Gustave Flaubert

7. The Bluest Eye
Toni Morrison

8. Reading in the Dark
Seamus Deane

9. A Strange and Sublime Address
Amit Chaudhuri

10. One Hundred Years of Solitude

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

About the book
A Critical Eye
‘PURPLE HIBISCUS IS one of the finest debut novels of recent years, a complex
and compelling account of a 15-year-old girl’s sexual awakening and
religious oppression, set against a backdrop of domestic violence and an
incipient military coup in Nigeria,’ says Alison Roberts in the Evening
Standard. ‘It is a novel as revealing and sensitive as Arundhati Roy’s The
God of Small Things, and as punchy and characterful as Monica Ali’s Brick
Lane.’
The Glasgow Herald’s Laurence Wareing was blown away by
Adichie’s ‘breathtaking confidence’ in echoing Chinua Achebe’s famous
title Things Fall Apart in her opening sentence. Indeed, she takes up many
of Achebe’s themes and, like him, ‘eschews black and white answers’. But
Purple Hibiscus is ‘more than a contemporary update on the impact of
colonialism in Nigeria’, he adds.
‘With writing marked by infinite wisdom and heart-breaking
generosity, Adichie draws the African struggle for a modern identity into
the heart of family life.’
The New Statesman’s Michele Roberts considered Purple Hibiscus to
be ‘in the best tradition of the coming-of-age novel’. With its ‘rich
descriptions of physical and domestic environments’ and ‘artful deployment
of suspense and drama’, it ‘serves as a reminder of what serious, committed
storytelling can do’.
Writing in the Daily Telegraph, Christopher Hope welcomed Adichie
as ‘a fresh new voice out of Africa’. The Observer’s Hephzibah Anderson
admired how she expresses the political in acutely personal terms, telling
‘an intoxicating story that is at once distinctively feminine, African and
universal’. The last word must go to Wareing, who hails the ‘balanced yet

passionate’ Adichie as ‘an inspirational new voice’, and Purple Hibiscus as
‘a book to read at all costs’.
Tiny Wonders
by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

THE ROADS ARE full of potholes and the car jolts often. ‘Sorry oh, sorry oh,’
the driver says, as if they are his fault. I know, though, that he is
apologizing because I am a stranger now, because I am just back from
America and am unused to the bumpy roads. The dust floats in through the
open windows to settle on my skin, my eyelashes, and underneath my nails.
Motorcycles hurtle past us, honking. Signboards slide past, cluttering the
roadside. Most of them were once white and are now tan with years of dust
and wind. In front of ramshackle sheds on the roadside, women are bent
over smoky roasting basins, fanning corncobs.
The minute we turn into our street, I realize that our blue two-story
house looks the same but that the plants seem faded, somehow; the
frangipani trees are not as lush as they have been in my imagination. And
our yard is silent, unlike in my childhood when it was alive with the shrieks
of us children playing soccer on the lawn, the buzz of the bees around the
ixora bushes, the laughter of my parents’ guests on the balcony upstairs, the
clucking of the chickens that sauntered around.
‘A quaint university town in eastern Nigeria’ is how I described
Nsukka to my American friends. A sterile description that did nothing to
capture this small, slow town where I grew up, where chicken is a delicacy,
where your neighbour is a witch and is responsible for all your illnesses,
where young girls want to put on weight and people raise free-range goats
that eat the flowers in the yard next door, where life was full of the tiny
wonders I tried to capture in my novel Purple Hibiscus.
I am back to spend Christmas with my dad. And I have been home
only a few days when he tells me that his friend Professor E. has passed on.
I remember the smallish professor of botany who grew saucer-sized roses in
his yard. I remember the story that when my parents’ baby died
(Chukwuemeka, born 1971, six years before me), it was Professor E. who

drove my distraught dad back to our ancestral hometown, Abba, for the
burial.
‘I’ll go with you to pay condolences,’ I say, and my dad nods, as
though he expected that I would anyway.
As we drive through the campus, I notice that the houses, too, are
faded. The rains have whitewashed the light blues and light pinks, window
nettings are torn, louvers are missing, hedges have gaping holes. There is
not only a shabbiness about it all, but it is a resigned shabbiness – there is
no attempt to conceal, to plant bright hibiscuses to draw the eyes away from
the moldy walls. Or away from the soil-covered lines that the termites have
drawn; those zigzag over the houses, like unwieldy veins, without any sense
of direction.
Near Ikejiani Avenue, I see men – workers, carpenters, and plumbers –
standing around a mango tree. They nudge the reddish-orange fruits down
with long sticks. There is a small cheer when a mango comes hurtling
down. Each man has a fruit in hand, each is chewing enthusiastically, but
they all want seconds, and they are still holding sticks and looking up at the
tree.
When we get to E.’s, we do not knock on the front door because it is
ajar; we simply walk through. There is a thick notebook on a sidetable, a
condolence register. Next to it is a porcelain flower vase.
‘Ngwa, let’s sign the register,’ my dad says. He writes, ‘May his soul
rest in perfect peace.’ Afterward, he hands me the pen. I look over a few
entries – most people have written, cryptically, ‘RIP’ – before writing,
‘May he rest in peace.’ I place the pen down reluctantly. I want to write
more. I want to ask why Nsukka is fading, why the palm tree outside, in the
middle of their yard, is shrunken, not the hulking thing I remember.
The widow comes out and we hug her and say, ‘Ndo, sorry.’ Her face
is free of makeup, dulled by grief. I remember her with a bright gash as lips;
she always wore the reddest lipstick. She talks quietly to my dad, telling
him about the arrangements, when the cultural funeral will be, who will
formally inform the village elders, when the church service will be. I am not
really listening. I want to reach out and smooth her uncombed hair because
it strikes me then how alone she is: her husband is gone and her children
live far away – in Brazil, Benin, Canada.

They will be coming home for the funeral, even though she asked them
not to, especially her son in Brazil. ‘He only just left and it’s too expensive,
really,’ she says. She looks at the condolence register, to make sure we have
signed it, and then she runs a finger over the vase. It is full of dried flowers.
Not intentionally dried, that kind you can get in a fancy florist’s, but dried
from being there, on that table, for too long. The croton leaves droop, the
lavender bougainvillea are rumpled, each of them fragile and papery. I
imagine her gathering the dried flowers up later, when her husband will be
long buried, when the guests will no longer troop in. I imagine her crushing
them in her hands, perhaps sniffing them first, only they will have no scent.
She will cry and remember him, and the years he played tennis at the
university staff club, the years before their house became silent, before
Nsukka became silent. The same years my brothers and I rode our Chopper
bicycles around the campus, flying over speed bumps, when our friends
came over to visit still chewing on their chicken bones from lunch, and we
played raucously until someone got hurt and an adult made everyone go
home. Or until our friends’ mother hooted ‘Cuckoo!’ from across the street.
Or until the sun went down and it got too dark to see. The years when we
raced to the Children’s Library and I sat on the cool linoleum floor and
entered Enid Blyton’s world. The years when I threw stones at the boy I
liked, and he threw stones back at me. A stone rain. I still remember the
delicious pain of stones coloured red by mud, of a fleeting unfettered
infatuation.
As my dad drives us home, I see that the men are sitting with their
backs against the tree trunk, eating mangoes and laughing. Life has
continued for them, I realize, life continues, even though my father’s friend
has died, even though nothing remains the same.
‘Nekene, these men must have finished the mangoes on that tree,’ my
dad says, pointing, amused. I did not know he had noticed them. I laugh
with him. Then I turn and watch him, this seventy-one-year-old man whom
I adore. I notice that his face is wrinkled, that his front tooth, wiggly for a
while, has fallen out and left a crooked gap. His mortality strikes me with a
fierce clutch at my throat, a squeeze of alarm. He used to have the
smoothest skin, dark like over-ripe grapes. He used to be invincible. He
used to never sleep; we heard him walking around at night, muttering
statistical formulas.

I sit outside that evening, on the stairs that lead to the backyard, and
watch the sun fall. Near me is an avocado tree and it slants, sideways, like a
tired old woman whose back is curved from years of bending over smoky
firewood. There are cracks etched onto the bark. Deep divisions, they are
beautiful and revolting at the same time. In my memory the bark was
always smooth. I used to hate the fruits from that tree because they tasted
sour. Like a slap on the face, I remember telling my brothers. Now it has no
fruits. I wish it did, because I would eat them, and I would savor the
sourness.
I get up and walk around the yard. In our old garage, full of dusty
cartons and crates thick with cobwebs, I see the blackboard. There is
writing on it, in my carefully curved hand: Are AEIOU called vowels?
I remember writing that, on a hot afternoon in 1987, as an English test
for my seven-year-old brother. I remember that I was wearing a pair of blue
shorts and my cornrows were held up with a ribbon. I remember that my
brother was not interested in the test.
I stare at the writing on that board, at the faded chalk. I cannot believe
that nobody ever wiped those words. I am suddenly, achingly, nostalgic for
a time past, for the ten-year-old me who was satisfied with the present, who
was not bewilderingly confronted by change. I wonder if I should wipe the
board, and finally, I decide not to. I leave it as it is.

© Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 2003

This essay was first published in the American literary magazine
Speakeasy.

Read on
Have you read?
Other books by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Half of a Yellow Sun
WINNER OF THE ORANGE BROADBAND PRIZE FOR FICTION
In the civil war-blighted Nigeria of the 1960s three lives intersect. Ugwu, a
boy from a poor village works as houseboy to a university lecturer. Olanna,
a young woman, has abandoned her life of privilege in Lagos to live with
her charismatic new lover the professor. The third is Richard, a shy
Englishman besotted with Olanna’s enigmatic sister. When the shocking
savagery of the war engulfs them their loyalties are severely tested as they
are pulled apart and thrown together in ways that none of them imagined…

‘Heartbreaking, funny, exquisitely written and, without doubt, a literary
masterpiece and a classic’
Daily Mail

The Thing Around Your Neck
The Thing Around Your Neck is a dazzling collection of twelve short stories,
in which Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie turns her penetrating eye on the ties
that bind men and women, parents and children, Nigeria and the West.
Searing and profound, suffused with beauty, sorrow and longing, this
collection is a resounding confirmation of her prodigious storytelling
powers.

‘She makes storytelling seem as easy as birdsong’ JANE SHILLING, Daily
Telegraph

If You Loved This, You Might Like…
Things Fall Apart
ChinuaAchebe
Published in 1958, this unsentimental portrait of traditional village culture
in Nigeria is the seminal African novel published in English.

Nervous Conditions
Tsitsi Dangeremgba
Set in colonial Rhodesia during the 1960s, this is the coming of age of a
teenage girl and her relationship with her British-educated cousin.

Joys of Motherhood
Buchi Emecheta
This story of a young mother’s struggles in 1950s Lagos is a commentary
on polygamy, patriarchy, and women’s changing roles in urban Nigeria.

Disgrace
J. M. Coetzee
Set in post-apartheid South Africa, this Booker Prize-winning novel is
about a man and his daughter and their personal and political responses to
the new South Africa.

In the Heart of the Country
J. M. Coetzee
The story of a lonely sheep farmer in colonial South Africa who seeks
private salvation in the arms of a black concubine, while his daughter
fantasizes about murdering both of them.

The Grass is Singing
Doris Lessing
Set in Rhodesia, this is the story of Dick, a failed white farmer, and his
wife, Mary, who seeks solace in the arms of the houseboy.

Annie John

Jamaica Kincaid
Growing up on Antigua should be a sojourn in paradise for Annie John. But
adolescence leads the headstrong girl into open rebellions and secret
discoveries, which eventually wrench her away from her island home.

A Grain of Wheat
Ngugi wa Thiong’o
This novel portrays several characters in a village whose intertwined lives
are transformed by the 1952–60 Emergency in Kenya.

Petals of Blood
Ngugi wa Thiong’o
This political novel and satire, which centres on a murder in a Kenyan
village, caused great controversy when it was published in 1977.

Also By The Author
Half of a Yellow Sun
The Thing Around Your Neck

Praise
From the reviews of Purple Hibiscus:

‘One of the finest debut novels of recent years, a complex and compelling
account of a 15-year-old girl’s sexual awakening and religious oppression…
It is a novel as revealing as Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, and
as punchy and characterful as Monica Ali’s Brick Lane’
Evening Standard

‘Perceptive characterisation and an evocative portrayal of a fast-changing
country mark this Orange-shortlisted novel out from the crowd’
Guardian

‘Assured and evocative, it touches on domestic violence and religious
fundamentalism with subtlety and sensitivity. Surely a tale for our times’
Daily Mail

‘With writing marked by infinite wisdom and heart-breaking generosity,
Adichie draws the African struggle for a modern identity into the heart of
family life…Balanced yet passionate, hers is an inspirational new voice and
Purple Hibiscus a book to read at all costs’
Glasgow Herald

‘This is a novel that brings you into the heart of private passions. But it is
also a novel that strays into political waters and does so with some subtlety’
Natasha Walter, Vogue

‘Adichie has an enviable mastery of narrative composition. Her characters
are vivid. Her pacing is excellent. She has a keen sense of irony…Into her
enthralling tale Adichie weaves complex themes…The result is a story

which is racy but complex and stimulating. It grips the reader from start to
finish. I could not put it down’
Irish Times

‘The simplicity of the transformation tale – the stuff of many oldfashioned
school stories – is made more powerful by the plot’s twists and surprises
and by the endearing and moving characters…Its cleverly contrived naivety
opens the reader to a world of feeling containing meaning’
Sunday Times

‘This debut novel, in the best tradition of the coming-of-age novel, serves
as a reminder of what serious, committed storytelling can do…Adichie
draws us inside Kambili’s world through her rich descriptions of physical
and domestic environments, her artful deployment of suspense and drama’
Michèle Roberts, New Statesman

‘Immensely powerful’
The Times

‘A wonderful first novel…Chimamanda’s prose is strikingly rich and
evocative in this touching and accomplished debut’

INK Magazine
‘An intoxicating story that is at once distinctly feminine, African and
universal’
OBSERVER

‘There’s a quiet confidence about the writing which is very attractive – it
isn’t showy, it isn’t brash, but on the contrary both captivating and mature’
MARGARET FORSTER

‘A sensitive and touching story of a child exposed too early to religious
intolerance and the uglier side of the Nigerian state’
J.M. COETZEE

‘A beautifully judged account of the private intimate stirrings of a young
girl…Adichie is a fresh new voice out of Africa’
TELEGRAPH

Copyright
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

This edition published by Fourth Estate 2009
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate 2004
Published in paperback by Harper Perennial 2005, reprinted 16 times

Copyright © Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 2004
PS section copyright © Clare Garner 2005, except ‘Tiny Wonders’ copyright © Chimamanda Ngozi
Adichie 2003

PS™ is a trademark of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the
work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
localities is entirely coincidental.

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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007383696

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Title Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
Breaking Gods
Speaking With Our Spirits
The Pieces of Gods
A Different Silence
Acknowledgments
P.S.
About the Author
Read on
Also by the author
Praise
Copyright
About the Publisher