Purple Hibiscus

sorry!”—was mine until the water stopped and I realized my mouth was moving and the words were still coming out. Papa put the kettle down, wiped at his eyes. I stood in the scalding tub; I was too scared to move—the skin of my feet would peel off if I tried to step out of the tub.
    Papa put his hands under my arms to carry me out, but I heard Mama say, “Let me, please.” I did not realize that Mama had come into the bathroom. Tears were running down her face. Her nose was running, too, and I wondered if she would wipe it before it got to her mouth, before she would have to taste it. She mixed salt with cold water and gently plastered the gritty mixture onto my feet. She helped me out of the tub, made to carry me on her back to my room, but I shook my head. She was too small. We might both fall. Mama did not speak until we were in my room. “You should take Panadol,” she said.
    I nodded and let her give me the tablets, although I knew they would do little for my feet, now throbbing to a steady, searing pulse. “Did you go to Jaja’s room?” I asked, and Mama nodded. She did not tell me about him, and I did not ask.
    “The skin of my feet will be bloated tomorrow,” I said.
    “Your feet will be healed in time for school,” Mama said.
    After Mama left, I stared at the closed door, at the smooth surface, and thought about the doors in Nsukka and their peeling blue paint. I thought about Father Amadi’s musical voice, about the wide gap that showed between Amaka’s teeth when she laughed, about Aunty Ifeoma stirring stew at her kerosenestove. I thought about Obiora pushing his glasses up his nose and Chima curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. I got up and hobbled over to get the painting of Papa-Nnukwu from my bag. It was still in the black wrapping. Even though it was in an obscure side pocket of my bag, I was too scared to unwrap it. Papa would know, somehow. He would smell the painting in his house. I ran my finger along the plastic wrapping, over the slight ridges of paint that melded into the lean form of Papa-Nnukwu, the relaxed fold of arms, the long legs stretched out in front of him.
    I had just hobbled back to my bed when Papa opened the door and came in. He knew. I wanted to shift and rearrange myself on the bed, as if that would hide what I had just done. I wanted to search his eyes to know what he knew, how he had found out about the painting. But I did not, could not. Fear. I was familiar with fear, yet each time I felt it, it was never the same as the other times, as though it came in different flavors and colors.
    “Everything I do for you, I do for your own good,” Papa said. “You know that?”
    “Yes, Papa.” I still was not sure if he knew about the painting.
    He sat on my bed and held my hand. “I committed a sin against my own body once,” he said. “And the good father, the one I lived with while I went to St. Gregory’s, came in and saw me. He asked me to boil water for tea. He poured the water in a bowl and soaked my hands in it.” Papa was looking right into my eyes. I did not know he had committed any sins, that he could commit any sins. “I never sinned against my own body again. The good father did that for my own good.” hesaid.
    After Papa left, I did not think about his hands soaked in hot water for tea, the skin peeling off, his face set in tight lines of pain. Instead I thought about the painting of Papa-Nnukwu in my bag.
    I DID NOT GET a chance to tell Jaja about the painting until the next day, a Saturday, when he came into my room during study time. He wore thick socks and placed his feet gingerly one after the other, as I did. But we did not talk about our padded feet. After he felt the painting with his finger, he said he had something to show me, too. We went downstairs to the kitchen. It was wrapped in black cellophane paper, as well, and he had lodged it in the refrigerator, beneath bottles of Fanta. When he saw my puzzled look, he said they weren’t just sticks; they were stalks of purple hibiscus. He would give them to the gardener. It was still harmattan and the earth was thirsty, but Aunty Ifeoma said the stalks might take root and grow if they were watered regularly, that hibiscuses didn’t like too much water, but they didn’t like to be too dry, either.
    Jaja’s eyes shone as he talked about the hibiscuses, as he held them out so I could touch the cold, moist sticks. He had told Papa about them, yet he quickly put them back into the