Purple Hibiscus
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 Papasometimes 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
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