Purple Hibiscus

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 ofsoldiers 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