Purple Hibiscus

good job with herteam 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