Purple Hibiscus

fire,” he said, when he finally got the fire to spread around. “We should use the gas cooker for everything now, anyway. There’s no point saving the gas, since we won’t be needing it for much longer.” He stretched, the sweat clinging to the outline of his ribs. He picked up an old newspaper and fanned himself for a while, then swatted at some flies.
    “
Nekwa
! Don’t knock them into my pot,” Amaka said. She was pouring bright reddish-orange palm oil into a pot.
    “We shouldn’t be bleaching any more palm oil. We should splurge on vegetable oil for these last few weeks,” Obiora said, still swatting at the flies.
    “You sound like Mom has already gotten the visa,” Amaka snapped. She placed the pot on the kerosene burner. The fire snaked around to the side of the pot, still a wild orange, spewing fumes; it had not yet stabilized to a clean blue.
    “She will get the visa. We should be positive.”
    “Haven’t you heard how those American embassy people treat Nigerians? They insult you and call you a liar and on top of it, eh, refuse to give you a visa,” Amaka said.
    “Mom will get the visa. A university is sponsoring her,” Obiora said.
    “So? Universities sponsor many people who still don’t get visas.”
    I started to cough. Thick white smoke from the bleachingpalm oil filled the kitchen, and in the stuffy mix of the fumes and heat and flies, I felt faint.
    “Kambili,” Amaka said. “Go to the verandah until the smoke blows out.”
    “No, it’s nothing,” I said.
    “Go,
biko
.”
    I went to the verandah, still coughing. It was clear that I was unused to bleaching palm oil, that I was used to vegetable oil, which did not need bleaching. But there had been no resentment in Amaka’s eyes, no sneer, no turndown of her lips. I was grateful when she called me back later to ask that I help her cut the ugu for the soup. I did not just cut the ugu, I made the garri also. Without her still eyes bearing down on me, I did not pour in too much hot water, and the garri turned out firm and smooth. I ladled my garri onto a flat plate, pushed it to the side, and then spooned my soup beside it. I watched the soup spreading, seeping in underneath the garri. I had never done this before; at home, Jaja and I always used separate dishes for garri and soup.
    We ate on the verandah, although it was almost as hot as the kitchen. The railings felt like the metal handles of a boiling pot.
    “Papa-Nnukwu used to say that an angry sun like this in rainy season means that a swift rain will come. The sun is warning us of the rain,” Amaka said, as we settled down on the mat with our food.
    We ate quickly because of the heat, because even the soup tasted like sweat. Afterward, we trooped to the neighbors’ flat on the topmost floor and stood on their verandah, to see if we could catch a breeze. Amaka and I stood by the railings, lookingdown. Obiora and Chima squatted to watch the children playing on the floor, clustered around the plastic Ludo board and rolling dice. Somebody poured a bucket of water on the verandah and the boys lay down, with their backs on the wet floor.
    I looked out at Marguerite Cartwright Avenue below, at a red Volkswagen driving past. It revved loudly as it went over the speed bump, and even from the verandah, I could see where the color had faded to a rusty orange. I felt nostalgic as I watched the Volkswagen disappear down the street, and I was not sure why. Maybe it was because it revved like Aunty Ifeoma’s car sometimes did, and it reminded me that very soon, I would not see her or her car anymore. She had gone to the police station to get a statement, which she would take to her visa interview at the American embassy to prove that she had never been convicted of a crime. Jaja had gone with her.
    “I suppose we won’t need to protect our doors with metal in America,” Amaka said, as if she knew what I was thinking about. She was fanning herself briskly with a folded newspaper.
    “What?”
    “Mom’s students broke into her office once and stole exam questions. She told the works department that she wanted metal bars on her office doors and windows, and they said there was no money. You know what she did?”
    Amaka turned to look at me; a small smile at the edges of her lips. I shook my head.
    “She went to a construction site, and they gave her metal rods for free. Then she asked Obiora and me to help her install them. We drilled holes and fit the rods in with cement,