Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Page A

Igwe had arrived, that Papa wanted us all to come down and greet him. Mama rose, tightened her wrapper, and then waited for Aunty Ifeoma to lead the way.
    â€œI thought the Igwe was supposed to stay at his palace and receive guests. I didn’t know he visits people’s homes,” Amaka said, as we went downstairs. “I guess that’s because your father is a Big Man.”
    I wished she had said “Uncle Eugene” instead of “your father.” She did not even look at me as she spoke. I felt, looking at her, that I was helplessly watching precious flaxen sand slip away between my fingers.
    The Igwe’s palace was a few minutes from our house. We had visited him once, some years back. We never visited him again, though, because Papa said that although the Igwe had converted, he still let his pagan relatives carry out sacrifices in his palace. Mama had greeted him the traditional way that women were supposed to, bending low and offering him her back so that he would pat it with his fan made of the soft, straw-colored tail of an animal. Back home that night, Papa told Mama that it was sinful. You did not bow to anotherhuman being. It was an ungodly tradition, bowing to an Igwe. So, a few days later, when we went to see the bishop at Awka, I did not kneel to kiss his ring. I wanted to make Papa proud. But Papa yanked my ear in the car and said I did not have the spirit of discernment: the bishop was a man of God; the Igwe was merely a traditional ruler.
    â€œGood afternoon, sir,
nno
,” I said to the Igwe when I got downstairs. The hairs that peeked out of his wide nose quivered as he smiled at me and said, “Our daughter,
kedu
?”
    One of the smaller sitting rooms had been cleared for him and his wife and four assistants, one of whom was fanning him with a gilded fan although the air conditioner was on. Another was fanning his wife, a woman with yellow skin and rows and rows of jewelry hanging round her neck, gold pendants and beads and corals. The scarf wound around her head flared out in front, wide like a banana leaf and so high that I imagined the person sitting behind her in church having to stand up to see the altar.
    I watched Aunty Ifeoma sink to one knee and say,
“Igwe
!” in the raised voice of a respectful salute, watched him pat her back. The gold sequins that covered his tunic glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Amaka bowed deeply before him. Mama, Jaja, and Obiora shook hands with him, respectfully enclosing his hand in both of theirs. I stood at the door a little longer, to make sure that Papa saw that I did not go close enough to the Igwe to bow to him.
    Back upstairs, Mama and Aunty Ifeoma went into Mama’s room. Chima and Obiora stretched out on the rug, playing with the whot cards that Obiora had discovered in his pockets. Amaka wanted to see a book Jaja told her he had brought, andthey went into Jaja’s room. I sat on the sofa, watching my cousins play with the cards. I did not understand the game, nor why at intervals one of them yelled “Donkey!” amid laughter. The stereo had stopped. I got up and went into the hallway, standing by Mama’s bedroom door. I wanted to go in and sit with Mama and Aunty Ifeoma, but instead I just stood still, listening. Mama was whispering; I could barely make out the words “there are many full gas cylinders lying around in the factory.” She was trying to persuade Aunty Ifeoma to ask Papa for them.
    Aunty Ifeoma was whispering, too, but I heard her well. Her whisper was like her—tall, exuberant, fearless, loud, larger than life. “Have you forgotten that Eugene offered to buy me a car, even before Ifediora died? But first he wanted us to join the Knights of St. John. He wanted us to send Amaka to convent school. He even wanted me to stop wearing makeup! I want a new car,
nwunye m
, and I want to use my gas cooker again and I want a new freezer and I want money so that I will not have to