Purple Hibiscus

is in the next person’s smelly armpit?” Aunty Ifeoma shook her head. “I am tired. I am so tired…”
    “We have some emergency fuel reserves in the chaplaincy,” Father Amadi said quietly. “I am sure I could get you a gallon.
Ekwuzina
, don’t sound that way.”
    Aunty Ifeoma nodded and thanked Father Amadi. But her face did not brighten, and later, when we said the rosary, her voice did not rise when she sang. I struggled to meditate on the joyful Mysteries, all the time wondering where Papa-Nnukwu would sleep when he came. There were few choices in the small flat—the living room was already full with the boys, and Aunt Ifeoma’s room was so busy, serving as food store and library and bedroom for her and Chima. It would have to be the other bedroom, Amaka’s—and mine. I wondered if I would have to confess that I had shared a room with a heathen. I paused then, in my meditation, to pray that Papa would never find out that Papa-Nnukwu had visited and that I had shared a room with him.
    At the end of the five decades, before we said the Hail Holy Queen, Aunty Ifeoma prayed for Papa-Nnukwu. She asked God to stretch a healing hand over him as he had stretched over the apostle Peter’s mother-in-law. She asked the Blessed Virgin to pray for him. She asked the angels to take charge of him.
    My “Amen” was a little delayed, a little surprised. When Papa prayed for Papa-Nnukwu, he asked only that God convert him and save him from the raging fires of hell.
    FATHER AMADI CAME EARLY the next morning, looking even more unpriestly than before, in khaki shorts that stopped just below his knees. He had not shaved, and in the clear morning sunlight, his stubble looked like tiny dots drawn on his jaw. He parked his car next to Aunty Ifeoma’s station wagon and took out a can of petrol and a garden hose that had been cut to a quarter of its length.
    “Let me do the sucking, Father,” Obiora said.
    “Make sure you don’t swallow,” Father Amadi said. Obiora inserted one end of the hose in the can and then enclosed the other end in his mouth. I watched his cheeks inflate like a balloon and then deflate. He swiftly took the hose out of his mouth and inserted it into the stations wagon’s petrol tank. He was sputtering and coughing.
    “Did you swallow too much?” Father Amadi asked, tapping Obiora’s back.
    “No,” Obiora said, between coughs. He looked proud.
    “Well done.
Imana
, you know sucking fuel is a skill you need these days,” Father Amadi said. His wry smile did little to mar the perfect clay smoothness of his features. Aunty Ifeoma cameout dressed in a plain black boubou. She wore no shiny lipstick, and her lips looked chapped. She hugged Father Amadi. “Thank you, Father.”
    “I can drive you to Abba later this afternoon, after my office hours.”
    “No, Father. Thank you. I will go with Obiora.”
    Aunty Ifeoma drove off with Obiora in the front seat, and Father Amadi left soon after. Chima went upstairs to the neighbor’s flat. Amaka went into her room and turned on her music, high enough that I heard it clearly from the verandah. I could tell her culturally conscious musicians apart now. I could distinguish the pure tones of Onyeka Onwenu, the brash power of Fela, the soothing wisdom of Osadebe. Jaja was in the garden with Aunt Ifeoma’s shears, and I sat with the book I was almost finished reading, watching him. He held the shears with both hands, above his head, clipping away.
    “Do you think we’re abnormal?” I asked, in a whisper.
    “Gini
?”
    “Amaka said we’re abnormal.”
    Jaja looked at me, then away, toward the line of garages in the front yard. “What does abnormal mean?” he asked, a question that did not need or want an answer, and then went back to trimming the plants.
    Aunty Ifeoma came back in the afternoon when the buzz of a bee around the garden was almost lulling me to sleep. Obiora helped Papa-Nnukwu out of the car, Papa-Nnukwu leaning against him as they walked into the flat. Amaka ran out and pressed her side lightly to Papa-Nnukwu’s. His eyes drooped, his lids looked as though they had weights placed on them, but he smiled and said something that made Amaka laugh.
    “Papa-Nnukwu,
nno
,” I said.
    “Kambili,” he said, weakly.
    Aunty Ifeoma wanted Papa-Nnukwu to lie down on Amaka’s bed, but he said he preferred the floor. The bed was too springy. Obiora and Jaja dressed the spare mattress and placed it on the floor, and Aunty Ifeoma helped