Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Page B

unravel the seams of Chima’s trousers when he outgrows them. But I will not ask my brother to bend over so that I can lick his buttocks to get these things.”
    â€œIfeoma, if you…” Mama’s soft voice trailed off again.
    â€œYou know why Eugene did not get along with Ifediora?” Aunty Ifeoma’s whisper was back, fiercer, louder. “Because Ifediora told him to his face what he felt. Ifediora was not afraid to tell the truth. But you know Eugene quarrels with the truths that he does not like. Our father is dying, do you hear me? Dying. He is an old man, how much longer does he have,
gbo
? Yet Eugene will not let him into this house, will not even greet him.
O joka
! Eugene has to stop doing God’s job. God is big enough to do his own job. If God will judge our father forchoosing to follow the way of our ancestors, then let God do the judging, not Eugene.”
    I heard the word
umunna
. Aunty Ifeoma laughed her throaty laugh before she replied. “You know that the members of our
umunna
, in fact everybody in Abba, will tell Eugene only what he wants to hear. Do our people not have sense? Will you pinch the finger of the hand that feeds you?”
    I did not hear Amaka come out of Jaja’s room and walk toward me, perhaps because the hallway was so wide, until she said, so close that her breath fanned my neck, “What are you doing?”
    I jumped. “Nothing.”
    She was looking at me oddly, right in the eye. “Your father has come upstairs for lunch,” she finally said.
    Papa watched as we all sat down at the table, and then started grace. It was a little longer than usual, more than twenty minutes, and when he finally said, “Through Christ our Lord,” Aunty Ifeoma raised her voice so that her “Amen” stood out from the rest of ours.
    â€œDid you want the rice to get cold, Eugene?” she muttered. Papa continued to unfold his napkin, as though he had not heard her.
    The sounds of forks meeting plates, of serving spoons meeting platters, filled the dining room. Sisi had drawn the curtains and turned the chandelier on, even though it was afternoon. The yellow light made Obiora’s eyes seem a deeper golden, like extra-sweet honey. The air conditioner was on, but I was hot.
    Amaka piled almost everything on her dish—jollof rice, fufu and two different soups, fried chicken and beef, salad and cream—like someone who would not have an opportunity toeat again soon. Strips of lettuce reached across from the edge of her plate to touch the dining table.
    â€œDo you always eat rice with a fork and a knife and napkins?” she asked, turning to watch me.
    I nodded, keeping my eyes on my jollof rice. I wished Amaka would keep her voice low. I was not used to this kind of conversation at table.
    â€œEugene, you must let the children come and visit us in Nsukka,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “We don’t have a mansion, but at least they can get to know their cousins.”
    â€œThe children don’t like to be away from home,” Papa said.
    â€œThat’s because they have never been away from home. I’m sure they will like to see Nsukka. Jaja and Kambili, won’t you?”
    I mumbled to my plate, then started to cough as if real, sensible words would have come out of my mouth but for the coughing.
    â€œIf Papa says it is all right,” Jaja said. Papa smiled at Jaja, and I wished I had said that.
    â€œMaybe the next time they are on holiday,” Papa said, firmly. He expected Aunty Ifeoma to let it go.
    â€œEugene,
biko
, let the children come and spend one week with us. They do not resume school until late January. Let your driver bring them to Nsukka.”
    â€œ
Ngwanu
, we will see,” Papa said. He spoke Igbo for the first time, his brows almost meeting in a quick frown.
    â€œIfeoma was saying that they just called off a strike,” Mama said.
    â€œAre things getting any better in