Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

touching him would heal them of an illness.
    When we got home, all the couches and sofas in the living room were full; some people were perched on the side tables. The men and women all rose when Papa came in, and chants of
“Omelora
!” filled the air. Papa went about shaking hands and hugging and saying “Merry Christmas” and “God bless you.” Somebody had left the door that led to the backyard open, and the blue-gray firewood smoke that hung heavy in the living room blurred the facial features of the guests. I could hear the wives of the umunna, chattering in the backyard, scooping soup and stew from the huge pots on the fire into bowls that would be taken to serve the people.
    â€œCome and greet the wives of our
umunna
,” Mama said to Jaja and me.
    We followed her out to the backyard. The women clapped and hooted when Jaja and I said,
“Nno nu.
” Welcome.
    They all looked alike, in ill-fitting blouses, threadbare wrappers, and scarves tied around their heads. They all had the same wide smile, the same chalk-colored teeth, the same sundried skin the color and texture of groundnut husks.
    â€œ
Nekene
, see the boy that will inherit his father’s riches!” one woman said, hooting even more loudly, her mouth shaped like a narrow tunnel.
    â€œIf we did not have the same blood in our veins, I would sell you my daughter,” another said to Jaja. She was squatting near the fire, arranging the firewood underneath the tripod. The others laughed.
    â€œThe girl is a ripe
agbogho
! Very soon a strong young manwill bring us palm wine!” another said. Her dirty wrapper was not knotted properly, and one end trailed in the dirt as she walked, carrying a tray mounded with bits of fried beef.
    â€œGo up and change,” Mama said, holding Jaja and me around the shoulders. “Your aunty and cousins will be here soon.”
    Upstairs, Sisi had set eight places at the dining table, with wide plates the color of caramel and matching napkins ironed into crisp triangles. Aunty Ifeoma and her children arrived while I was still changing out of my church clothes. I heard her loud laughter, and it echoed and went on for a while. I did not realize it was my cousins’ laughter, the sound reflecting their mother’s, until I went out to the living room. Mama, who was still in the pink, heavily sequined wrapper she had worn to church, sat next to Aunty Ifeoma on a couch. Jaja was talking to Amaka and Obiora near the étagère. I went over to join them, starting to pace my breathing so that I would not stutter.
    â€œThat’s a stereo, isn’t it? Why don’t you play some music? Or are you bored with the stereo, too?” Amaka asked, her placid eyes darting from Jaja to me.
    â€œYes, it’s a stereo,” Jaja said. He did not say that we never played it, that we never even thought to, that all we listened to was the news on Papa’s radio during family time. Amaka went over and pulled out the LP drawer. Obiora joined her.
    â€œNo wonder you don’t play the stereo, everything in here is so dull!” she said.
    â€œThey’re not that dull,” Obiora said, looking through the LPs. He had a habit of pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. Finally he put one on, an Irish church choir singing “O Come All Ye Faithful.” He seemed fascinated bythe stereo player and, as the song played, stood watching it as if he would learn the secrets of its chrome entrails by staring hard at it.
    Chima came into the room. “The toilet here is so nice, Mommy. It has big mirrors and creams in glass bottles.”
    â€œI hope you didn’t break anything,” Aunty Ifeoma said.
    â€œI didn’t,” Chima said. “Can we put the TV on?”
    â€œNo,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Your Uncle Eugene is coming up soon so we can have lunch.”
    Sisi came into the room, smelling of food and spices, to tell Mama that the