Purple Hibiscus

Coker’s funeral; he set up a trust for Yewande Coker and the children, bought them a new house. He paid the
Standard
staff huge bonuses and asked them all to take a long leave. Hollows appeared under his eyes during those weeks, as if someone had suctioned the delicate flesh, leaving his eyes sunken in.
    My nightmares started then, nightmares in which I saw Ade Coker’s charred remains spattered on his dining table, on his daughter’s school uniform, on his baby’s cereal bowl, on his plate of eggs. In some of the nightmares, I was the daughter and the charred remains became Papa’s.
    WEEKS AFTER ADE COKER DIED , the hollows were still carved under Papa’s eyes, and there was a slowness in his movements, as though his legs were too heavy to lift, his handstoo heavy to swing. He took longer to reply when spoken to, to chew his food, even to find the right Bible passages to read. But he prayed a lot more, and some nights when I woke up to pee, I heard him shouting from the balcony overlooking the front yard. Even though I sat on the toilet seat and listened, I never could make sense of what he was saying. When I told Jaja about this, he shrugged and said that Papa must have been speaking in tongues, although we both knew that Papa did not approve of people speaking in tongues because it was what the fake pastors at those mushroom Pentecostal churches did.
    Mama told Jaja and me often to remember to hug Papa tighter, to let him know we were there, because he was under so much pressure. Soldiers had gone to one of the factories, carrying dead rats in a carton, and then closed the factory down, saying the rats had been found there and could spread disease through the wafers and biscuits. Papa no longer went to the other factories as often as he used to. Some days, Father Benedict came before Jaja and I left for school, and was still in Papa’s study when we came home. Mama said they were saying special novenas. Papa never came out to make sure Jaja and I were following our schedules on such days, and so Jaja came into my room to talk, or just to sit on my bed while I studied, before going to his room.
    It was on one of those days that Jaja came into my room, shut the door, and asked, “Can I see the painting of Papa-Nnukwu?”
    My eyes lingered on the door. I never looked at the painting when Papa was at home.
    “He is with Father Benedict,” Jaja said. “He will not come in.”
    I took the painting out of the bag and unwrapped it. Jajastared at it, running his deformed finger over the paint, the finger that had very little feeling.
    “I have Papa-Nnukwu’s arms,” Jaja said. “Can you see? I have his arms.” He sounded like someone in a trance, as if he had forgotten where he was and who he was. As if he had forgotten that his finger had little feeling in it.
    I did not tell Jaja to stop, or point out that it was his deformed finger that he was running over the painting. I did not put the painting right back. Instead I moved closer to Jaja and we stared at the painting, silently, for a very long time. A long enough time for Father Benedict to leave. I knew Papa would come in to say good night, to kiss my forehead. I knew he would be wearing his wine-red pajamas that lent a slightly red shimmer to his eyes. I knew Jaja would not have enough time to slip the painting back in the bag, and that Papa would take one look at it and his eyes would narrow, his cheeks would bulge out like unripe udala fruit, his mouth would spurt Igbo words.
    And that was what happened. Perhaps it was what we wanted to happen, Jaja and I, without being aware of it. Perhaps we all changed after Nsukka—even Papa—and things were destined to not be the same, to not be in their original order.
    “What is that? Have you all converted to heathen ways? What are you doing with that painting? Where did you get it?” Papa asked.
    “
O nkem
. It’s mine,” Jaja said. He wrapped the painting around his chest with his arms.
    “It’s mine,” I said.
    Papa swayed slightly, from side to side, like a person aboutto fall at the feet of a charismatic pastor after the laying on of hands. Papa did not sway often. His swaying was like shaking a bottle of Coke that burst into violent foam when you opened it.
    “Who brought that painting into this house?”
    “Me,” I said.
    “Me,” Jaja said.
    If only Jaja would look at me, I would ask him not to blame himself. Papa snatched the painting from Jaja. His hands moved swiftly, working