Purple Hibiscus

see the tears on my face and so I would not see the tears on hers. There was not much talking in the flat; the silence was heavy and brooding. Even Chima curled up in a corner for much of the morning, quietly drawing pictures. Aunty Ifeoma boiled some yam slices, and we ate them dipped in palm oil that had chopped red peppers floating in it. Amaka came out of the bathroom hours after we had eaten, her eyes swollen, her voice hoarse.
    “Go and eat, Amaka. I boiled yam,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
    “I did not finish painting him. He said we would finish it today.”
    “Go and eat,
inugo
,” Aunty Ifeoma repeated.
    “He would be alive now if the medical center was not on strike,” Amaka said.
    “It was his time,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Do you hear me? It was simply his time.”
    Amaka stared at Aunty Ifeoma and then turned away. I wanted to hug her, to say “
ebezi na
” and wipe away her tears. I wanted to cry loudly, in front of her, with her. But I knew it might anger her. She was already angry enough. Besides, I did not have a right to mourn Papa-Nnukwu with her; he had been her Papa-Nnukwu more than mine. She had oiled his hair while I kept away and wondered what Papa would say if he knew. Jaja put his arm around her and led her into the kitchen. She shook free of him, as if to prove she did not need support, but she walked close to him. I stared after them, wishing I had done that instead of Jaja.
    “Somebody just parked in front of our flat,” Obiora said. He had taken off his glasses to cry, but now he had them back on, and he pushed them up the bridge of his nose as he got up to look outside.
    “Who is it?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, tiredly. She could not care less who it was.
    “Uncle Eugene.”
    I froze on my seat, felt the skin of my arms melding and becoming one with the cane arms of the chair. Papa-Nnukwu’s death had overshadowed everything, pushed Papa’s face into a vague place. But that face had come alive now. It was at the door, looking down at Obiora. Those bushy eyebrows were not familiar; neither was that shade of brown skin. Perhaps if Obiora had not said, “Uncle Eugene,” I would not have known that it was Papa, that the tall stranger in the well-tailored whitetunic was Papa.
    “Good afternoon, Papa,” I said, mechanically.
    “Kambili, how are you? Where is Jaja?”
    Jaja came out of the kitchen then and stood staring at Papa. “Good afternoon, Papa,” he finally said.
    “Eugene, I asked you not to come,” Aunty Ifeoma said, in the same tired tone of one who did not really care. “I told you I would bring them back tomorrow,”
    “I could not let them stay an extra day,” Papa said, looking around the living room, toward the kitchen and then the hallway, as if waiting for Papa-Nnukwu to appear in a puff of heathen smoke.
    Obiora took Chima by the hand and went out to the verandah.
    “Eugene, our father has fallen asleep,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
    Papa stared at her for a while, surprise widening the narrow eyes that so easily became red-spotted. “When?”
    “This morning. In his sleep. They took him to the mortuary just hours ago.”
    Papa sat down and slowly lowered his head into his hands, and I wondered if he was crying, if it would be acceptable for me to cry, too. But when he looked up, I did not see the traces of tears in his eyes. “Did you call a priest to give him extreme unction?” he asked.
    Aunty Ifeoma ignored him and continued to look at her hands, folded in her lap.
    “Ifeoma, did you call a priest?” Papa asked.
    “Is that all you can say, eh, Eugene? Have you nothing else to say,
gbo
? Our father has died! Has your head turned upside down? Will you not help me bury our father?”
    “I cannot participate in a pagan funeral, but we can discusswith the parish priest and arrange a Catholic funeral.”
    Aunty Ifeoma got up and started to shout. Her voice was unsteady. “I will put my dead husband’s grave up for sale, Eugene, before I give our father a Catholic funeral. Do you hear me? I said I will sell Ifediora’s grave first! Was our father a Catholic? I ask you, Eugene, was he a Catholic?
Uchu gba gi
!” Aunty Ifeoma snapped her fingers at Papa; she was throwing a curse at him. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She made choking sounds as she turned and walked into her bedroom.
    “Kambili and Jaja, come,” Papa said, standing up. He hugged us at the same time, tightly. He kissed the tops of our heads, before saying, “Go and pack your bags.”
    In the