Purple Hibiscus

asked, smiling.
    “Yes, Aunty.”
    “Your father called this afternoon,” she said, in English.
    I stared at her, studying the black mole above her lip, willing her to laugh her loud, cackling laugh and tell me it was a joke. Papa never called in the afternoon. Besides, he had called before he went to work, so why had he called again? Something had to be wrong.
    “Somebody from the village—I’m sure it was a member of our extended family—told him that I had come to take your grandfather from the village,” Aunty Ifeoma said, still in English so Papa-Nnukwu would not understand. “Your father said I should have told him, that he deserved to know that your grandfather was here in Nsukka. He went on and on about a heathen being in the same house as his children.” Aunty Ifeoma shook her head as if the way Papa felt were just a minor eccentricity. But it was not. Papa would be outraged that neither Jaja nor I had mentioned it when he called. My head was filling up quickly with blood or water or sweat. Whatever it was, I knew I would faint when my head got full.
    “He said he would come here tomorrow to take you both back, but I calmed him down. I told him that I would take you and Jaja home the day after tomorrow, and I think he accepted that. Let’s hope we find fuel,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
    “Okay, Aunty.” I turned to go into the flat, feeling dizzy.
    “Oh, and he has gotten his editor out of prison,” Aunty Ifeoma said. But I hardly heard her.
    AMAKA SHOOK ME although her movements had already woken me. I had been teetering on that boundary that divides sleep and wakefulness, imagining Papa coming to get us himself, imagining the rage in his red-tinged eyes, the burst of Igbo from his mouth.
    “Let’s go and fetch water. Jaja and Obiora are already out,” Amaka said, stretching. She said that every morning now. She let me carry one container in now, too.
    “
Nekwa
, Papa-Nnukwu is still asleep. He will be upset that the medicines made him oversleep and he did not wake to watch the sun rise.” She bent and shook him gently.
    “Papa-Nnukwu, Papa-Nnukwu,
kunie.
” She turned him over slowly when he did not stir. His wrapper had come undone to reveal a pair of white shorts with a frayed elastic band at the waist. “Mom! Mom!” Amaka screamed. She moved a hand over Papa-Nnukwu’s chest, feverishly, searching for a heartbeat. “Mom!”
    Aunty Ifeoma hurried into the room. She had not tied her wrapper over her nightdress, and I could make out the downward slope of her breasts, the slight swell of her belly underneath the sheer fabric. She sank to her knees and clutched Papa-Nnukwu’s body, shaking it.
    “Nna anyi! Nna anyi
!” Her voice was desperately loud, as if raising it would make Papa-Nnukwu hear better and respond. “
Nna anyi
!” When she stopped speaking, grasping Papa-Nnukwu’s wrist, resting her head on his chest, the silence was broken only by the crow of the neighbor’s cock. I held my breath—it suddenly seemed too loud for Aunty Ifeoma to hear Papa-Nnukwu’s heartbeat.
    “
Ewuu
, he has fallen asleep. He has fallen asleep,” AuntyIfeoma said, finally. She buried her head on Papa-Nnukwu’s shoulder, rocking back and forth.
    Amaka pulled at her mother. “Stop it, Mom. Give him mouth to mouth! Stop it!”
    Aunty Ifeoma kept rocking, and for a moment, because Papa-Nnukwu’s body moved back and forth as well, I wondered if Aunty Ifeoma was wrong and Papa-Nnukwu was only really asleep.
    “
Nna m o
! My father!” Aunty Ifeoma’s voice rang out so pure and high it seemed to come from the ceiling. It was the same tone, the same piercing depth, that I heard sometimes in Abba when mourners danced past our house, holding the photograph of a dead family member, shouting.
    “
Nna m o
!” Aunty Ifeoma screamed, still clutching Papa-Nnukwu. Amaka made feeble attempts to pull her off. Obiora and Jaja dashed into the room. And I imagined our forebears a century ago, the ancestors Papa-Nnukwu prayed to, charging in to defend their hamlet, coming back with lolling heads on long sticks.
    “What is it, Mom?” Obiora asked. The bottom of his trousers clung to his leg where water from the tap had splashed on it.
    “Papa-Nnukwu is alive,” Jaja said in English, with authority, as if doing so would make his words come true. The same tone God must have used when He said “Let there be Light.” Jaja wore only the bottom of his pajamas, which was also splattered with water. For the