Purple Hibiscus

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 outand 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. WhenAmaka 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. Amakadid not talk much the rest of the afternoon, until