Purple Hibiscus

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, smilingand 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 manwill 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,