Purple Hibiscus

herself to the floor. Obiora had spread a mat and there was room on it, but she sat on the bare cement, resting her head against the railings. “You have come again with youruniversity talk, Ifeoma,” she said, mildly, and then looked away . to signal that the conversation was over.
    I had never seen Mama like that, never seen that look in her eyes, never heard her say so much in such a short time.
    Long after she and Aunty Ifeoma had gone to bed, I sat on the verandah with Amaka and Obiora, playing whot—Obiora had taught me to play all the card games.
    “Last card!” Amaka announced, smug, placing down a card.
    “I hope Aunty Beatrice sleeps well,” Obiora said, picking up a card. “She should have taken a mattress. The mat is hard.”
    “She’ll be fine,” Amaka said. She looked at me and repeated, “She’ll be fine.”
    Obiora reached out and patted my shoulder. I did not know what to do, so I asked “It’s my turn?” even though I knew it was.
    “Uncle Eugene is not a bad man, really,” Amaka said. “People have problems, people make mistakes.”
    “
Mh
,” Obiora said, pushing his glasses up.
    “I mean, some people can’t deal with stress,” Amaka said, looking at Obiora as though she expected him to say something. He remained silent, examining the card he held up to his face.
    Amaka picked up an extra card. “He paid for Papa-Nnukwu’s funeral, after all.” She was still watching Obiora. But he made no response to her; instead, he placed his card down and said, “Check up!” He had won again.
    As I lay in bed, I did not think about going back to Enugu; I thought about how many card games I had lost.
    WHEN PAPA ARRIVED in the Mercedes, Mama packed our bags herself and put them in the car. Papa hugged Mama, holding her close, and she rested her head on his chest. Papa had lost weight; usually, Mama’s small hands barely went round to his back, but this time her hands rested on the small of his back. I did not notice the rashes on his face until I came close to hug him. They were like tiny pimples, each with whitish pus at the tips, and they covered the whole of his face, even his eyelids. His face looked swollen, oily, discolored. I had intended to hug him and have him kiss my forehead, but instead I stood there and stared at his face.
    “I have a little allergy,” he said. “Nothing serious.”
    When he took me in his arms, I closed my eyes as he kissed my forehead.
    “We will see you soon,” Amaka whispered before we hugged good-bye. She called me nwanne m nwanyi—my sister. She stood outside the flat, waving, until I could no longer see her through the rear windscreen.
    When Papa started the rosary as we drove out of the compound, his voice was different, tired. I stared at the back of his neck, which was not covered by the pimples, and it looked different, too—smaller, with thinner folds of skin.
    I turned to look at Jaja. I wanted our eyes to meet, so I could tell him how much I had wanted to spend Easter in Nsukka, how much I had wanted to attend Amaka’s confirmation and Father Amadi’s Pascal Mass, how I had planned to sing with my voice raised. But Jaja glued his eyes to the window, and except for muttering the prayers, he was silent until we got to Enugu.
    The scent of fruits filled my nose when Adamu opened ourcompound gates. It was as if the high walls locked in the scent of the ripening cashews and mangoes and avocados. It nauseated me.
    “See, the purple hibiscuses are about to bloom,” Jaja said, as we got out of the car. He was pointing, although I did not need him to. I could see the sleepy, oval-shape buds in the front yard as they swayed in the evening breeze.
    The next day was Palm Sunday, the day Jaja did not go to communion, the day Papa threw his heavy missal across the room and broke the figurines.

THE PIECES OF GODS

    After Palm Sunday

    Everything came tumbling down after Palm Sunday. Howling winds came with an angry rain, uprooting frangipani trees in the front yard. They lay on the lawn, their pink and white flowers grazing the grass, their roots waving lumpy soil in the air. The satellite dish on top of the garage came crashing down, and lounged on the driveway like a visiting alien spaceship. The door of my wardrobe dislodged completely. Sisi broke a full set of Mama’s china.
    Even the silence that descended on the house was sudden, as though the old silence had broken and left us with the sharp pieces. When Mama asked Sisi to wipe the