Purple Hibiscus

past the study a few times, but when I looked at him, he shook his head—he could hear nothing through the closed door, either.
    It was that evening, before dinner, that the government agents came, the men in black who yanked hibiscuses off as they left, the men Jaja said had come to bribe Papa with a truckful of dollars, the men Papa asked to get out of our house.
    WHEN WE GOT the next edition of the
Standard
, I knew it would have Nwankiti Ogechi on its cover. The story was detailed, angry, full of quotes from someone called The Source. Soldiers shot Nwankiti Ogechi in a bush in Minna.And then they poured acid on his body to melt his flesh off his bones, to kill him even when he was already dead.
    During family time, while Papa and I played chess, Papa winning, we heard on the radio that Nigeria had been suspended from the Commonwealth because of the murder, that Canada and Holland were recalling their ambassadors in protest. The newscaster read a small portion of the press release from the Canadian government, which referred to Nwankiti Ogechi as “a man of honor.”
    Papa looked up from the board and said, “It was coming to this. I knew it would come to this.”
    Some men arrived just after we had dinner, and I heard Sisi tell Papa that they said they were from the Democratic Coalition. They stayed on the patio with Papa, and even though I tried to, I could not hear their conversation. The next day, more guests came during dinner. And even more the day after. They all told Papa to be careful. Stop going to work in your official car. Don’t go to public places. Remember the bomb blast at the airport when a civil rights lawyer was traveling. Remember the one at the stadium during the pro-democracy meeting. Lock your doors. Remember the man shot in his bedroom by men wearing black masks.
    Mama told me and Jaja. She looked scared when she talked, and I wanted to pat her shoulder and tell her Papa would be fine. I knew he and Ade Coker worked with truth, and I knew he would be fine.
    “Do you think Godless men have any sense?” Papa asked every night at dinner, often after a long stretch of silence. He seemed to drink a lot of water at dinner, and I would watchhim, wondering if his hands were really shaking or if I was imagining it.
    Jaja and I did not talk about the many people who came to the house. I wanted to talk about it, but Jaja looked away when I brought it up with my eyes, and he changed the subject when I spoke of it. The only time I heard him say anything about it was when Aunty Ifeoma called to find out how Papa was doing, because she had heard about the furor the
Standard
story had caused. Papa was not home, and so she spoke to Mama. Afterward, Mama gave the phone to Jaja.
    “Aunty, they won’t touch Papa,” I heard Jaja say. “They know he has many foreign connections.”
    As I listened to Jaja go on to tell Aunty Ifeoma that the gardener had planted the hibiscus stalks, but that it was still too early to tell if they would live, I wondered why he had never said that to me about Papa.
    When I took the phone, Aunty Ifeoma sounded close by and loud. After our greetings, I took a deep breath and said, “Greet Father Amadi.”
    “He asks about you and Jaja all the time,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Hold on,
nne
, Amaka is here.”
    “Kambili,
ke kwanu
?” Amaka sounded different on the phone. Breezy. Less likely to start an argument. Less likely to sneer—or maybe that was simply because I would not see the sneer.
    “I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you for the painting.”
    “I thought you might want to keep it.” Amaka’s voice was still hoarse when she spoke of Papa-Nnukwu.
    “Thank you,” I whispered. I had not known that Amaka eventhought of me, even knew what I wanted, even knew that I wanted.
    “You know Papa-Nnukwu’s
akwam ozu
is next week?”
    “Yes.”
    “We will wear white. Black is too depressing, especially that shade people wear to mourn, like burnt wood. I will lead the dance of the grandchildren.” She sounded proud.
    “He will rest in peace,” I said. I wondered if she could tell that I, too, wanted to wear white, to join the funeral dance of the grandchildren.
    “Yes, he will.” There was a pause. “Thanks to Uncle Eugene.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I felt as if I were standing on a floor where a child had spilled talcum powder and I would have to walk carefully so as not to slip and fall.
    “Papa-Nnukwu really worried about having a proper