We finished dinner in silence. Afterward, Jaja followed Papa upstairs. I sat with Mama in the living room, wondering why Jaja had asked for the key. Of course Papa would never give it to him, he knew that, knew that Papa would never let us lock our doors. For a moment, I wondered if Papa was right, if being with Papa-Nnukwu had made Jaja evil, had made us evil.
"It feels different to be back, okwia?" Mama asked. She was looking through samples of fabric, to pick out a shade for the new curtains. We replaced the curtains every year, toward the end of harmattan. Kevin brought samples for Mama to look at, and she picked some and showed Papa, so he could make the final decision. Papa usually chose her favorite. Dark beige last year. Sand beige the year before. I wanted to tell Mama that it did feel different to be back, that our living room had too much empty space, too much wasted marble floor that gleamed from Sisi's polishing and housed nothing. Our ceilings were too high. Our furniture was lifeless: the glass tables did not shed twisted skin in the harmattan, the leather sofas' greeting was a clammy coldness, the Persian rugs were too lush to have any feeling. But I said, "You polished the etagere."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
I stared at her eye. It appeared to be opening now; it must have been swollen completely shut yesterday.
"Kambili!" Papa's voice carried clearly from upstairs. I held my breath and sat still. "Kambili!"
"Nne, go," Mama said.
I went upstairs slowly. Papa was in the bathroom, with the door ajar. I knocked on the open door and stood by, wondering why he had called me when he was in the bathroom. "Come in," he said. He was standing by the tub. "Climb into the tub."
I stared at Papa. Why was he asking me to climb into the tub? I looked around the bathroom floor; there was no stick anywhere. Maybe he would keep me in the bathroom and then go downstairs, out through the kitchen, to break a stick off one of the trees in the backyard. When Jaja and I were younger, from elementary two until about elementary five, he asked us to get the stick ourselves. We always chose whistling pine because the branches were malleable, not as painful as the stiffer branches from the gmelina or the avocado. And Jaja soaked the sticks in cold water because he said that made them less painful when they landed on your body. The older we got, though, the smaller the branches we brought, until Papa started to go out himself to get the stick.
"Climb into the tub," Papa said again. I stepped into the tub and stood looking at him. It didn't seem that he was going to get a stick, and I felt fear, stinging and raw, fill my bladder and my ears. I did not know what he was going to do to me. It was easier when I saw a stick, because I could rub my palms together and tighten the muscles of my calves in preparation. He had never asked me to stand inside a tub. Then I noticed the kettle on the floor, close to Papa's feet, the green kettle Sisi used to boil hot water for tea and garri, the one that whistled when the water started to boil. Papa picked it up. "You knew your grandfather was coming to Nsukka, did you not?" he asked in Igbo.
"Yes, Papa."
"Did you pick up the phone and inform me of this, gbo?"
"No."
"You knew you would be sleeping in the same house as a heathen?"
"Yes, Papa."
"So you saw the sin clearly and you walked right into it?"
I nodded. "Yes, Papa."
"Kambili, you are precious." His voice quavered now, like someone speaking at a funeral, choked with emotion. "You should strive for perfection. You should not see sin and walk right into it." He lowered the kettle into the tub, tilted it toward my feet. He poured the hot water on my feet, slowly, as if he were conducting an experiment and wanted to see what would happen. He was crying now, tears streaming down his face. I saw the moist steam before I saw the water. I watched the water leave the kettle, flowing almost in slow motion in an arc to my feet. The pain of contact was so pure, so scalding, I felt nothing for a second. And then I screamed.
"That is what you do to yourself when you walk into sin. You burn your feet," he said.
I wanted to say "Yes, Papa," because he was right, but the burning on my feet was climbing up, in swift courses of excruciating pain, to my head and lips and eyes. Papa was holding me with one wide hand, pouring the water carefully with the other. I did not know that the sobbing voice-"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" — was mine until the water stopped and I realized my mouth was moving and the words were still coming out.
Papa put the kettle down, wiped at his eyes. I stood in the scalding tub; I was too scared to move-the skin of my feet would peel off if I tried to step out of the tub. Papa put his hands under my arms to carry me out, but I heard Mama say, "Let me, please." I did not realize that Mama had come into the bathroom. Tears were running down her face. Her nose was running, too, and I wondered if she would wipe it before it got to her mouth, before she would have to taste it. She mixed salt with cold water and gently plastered the gritty mixture onto my feet. She helped me out of the tub, made to carry me on her back to my room, but I shook my head. She was too small. We might both fall.
Mama did not speak until we were in my room. "You should take Panadol," she said. I nodded and let her give me the tablets, although I knew they would do little for my feet, now throbbing to a steady, searing pulse.
"Did you go to Jaja's room?" I asked, and Mama nodded. She did not tell me about him, and I did not ask.
"The skin of my feet will be bloated tomorrow," I said.
"Your feet will be healed in time for school," Mama said.
After Mama left, I stared at the closed door, at the smooth surface, and thought about the doors in Nsukka and their peeling blue paint. I thought about Father Amadi's musical voice, about the wide gap that showed between Amaka s teeth when she laughed, about Aunty Ifeoma stirring stew at her kerosene stove. I thought about Obiora pushing his glasses up his nose and Chima curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.
I got up and hobbled over to get the painting of Papa-Nnukwu from my bag. It was still in the black wrapping. Even though it was in an obscure side pocket of my bag, I was too scared to unwrap it. Papa would know, somehow. He would smell the painting in his house. I ran my finger along the plastic wrapping, over the slight ridges of paint that melded into the lean form of Papa-Nnukwu, the relaxed fold of arms, the long legs stretched out in front of him.
I had just hobbled back to my bed when Papa opened the door and came in. He knew. I wanted to shift and rearrange myself on the bed, as if that would hide what I had just done. I wanted to search his eyes to know what he knew, how he had found out about the painting. But I did not, could not. Fear. I was familiar with fear, yet each time I felt it, it was never the same as the other times, as though it came in different flavors and colors.
"Everything I do for you, I do for your own good," Papa said. "You know that?"
"Yes, Papa." I still was not sure if he knew about the painting. He sat on my bed and held my hand. "I committed a sin against my own body once," he said. "And the good father, the one I lived with while I went to St. Gregory's, came in and saw me. He asked me to boil water for tea. He poured the water in a bowl and soaked my hands in it."
Papa was looking right into my eyes. I did not know he had committed any sins, that he could commit any sins. "I never sinned against my own body again. The good father did that for my own good," he said.
After Papa left, I did not think about his hands soaked in hot water for tea, the skin peeling off, his face set in tight lines of pain. Instead I thought about the painting of Papa-Nnukwu in my bag.
I did not get a chance to tell Jaja about the painting until the next day, a Saturday, when he came into my room during study time. He wore thick socks and placed his feet gingerly one after the other, as I did. But we did not talk about our padded feet. After he felt the painting with his finger, he said he had something to show me, too. We went downstairs to the kitchen. It was wrapped in black cellophane paper, as well, and he had lodged it in the refrigerator, beneath bottles of Fanta. When he saw my puzzle
d look, he said they weren't just sticks; they were stalks of purple hibiscus. He would give them to the gardener. It was still harmattan and the earth was thirsty, but Aunty Ifeoma said the stalks might take root and grow if they were watered regularly, that hibiscuses didn't like too much water, but they didn't like to be too dry, either.
Jaja's eyes shone as he talked about the hibiscuses, as he held them out so I could touch the cold, moist sticks. He had told Papa about them, yet he quickly put them back into the fridge when we heard Papa coming.
Lunch was yam porridge, the smell wafting around the house even before we went to the dining table. It smelled good-pieces of dried fish drifting in yellow sauce alongside the greens and cubed yams. After prayers, as Mama dished out the food, Papa said, "These pagan funerals are expensive. One fetish group will ask for a cow, then a witch doctor will demand a goat for some god of stone, then another cow for the hamlet and another for the umuada. Nobody ever asks why the so-called gods don't ever eat the animals and instead greedy men share the meat among themselves. The death of a person is just an excuse for heathens to feast."
I wondered why Papa was saying this, what had prompted him. The rest of us remained silent while Mama finished dishing out the food.
"I sent Ifeoma money for the funeral. I gave her all she needed," Papa said. After a pause, he added, "For nna anyi's funeral."
"Thanks be to God," Mama said, and Jaja and I repeated her.
Sisi came in before we finished lunch to tell Papa that Ade Coker was at the gate with another man. Adamu had asked them to wait at the gate; he always did that when people visited during weekend meal times. I expected Papa to ask them to wait on the patio until we finished lunch, but he told Sisi to have Adamu let them in and to open the front door. He said the prayer after meals while we still had food on our plates and then asked us to keep eating, he would be right back.
The guests came in and sat down in the living room. I could not see them from the dining table, but while I ate, I tried hard to make out what they were saying. I knew Jaja was listening, too. I saw the way his head was slightly tilted, his eyes focused on the empty space in front of him. They were talking in low tones, but it was easy to make out the name Nwankiti Ogechi, especially when Ade Coker spoke, because he did not lower his voice as much as Papa and the other man did. He was saying that Big Oga's assistant-Ade Coker referred to the head of state as Big Oga even in his editorials-had called to say that Big Oga was willing to give him an exclusive interview. "But they want me to cancel the Nwankiti Ogechi story. Imagine the stupid man, he said they knew some useless people had told me stories that I planned to use in my piece and that the stories were lies…"
I heard Papa interrupt in a low voice, and the other man added something afterward, something about the Big People in Abuja not wanting such a story out now that the Commonwealth Nations were meeting. "You know what this means? My sources were right. They have really wasted Nwankiti Ogechi," Ade Coker said. "Why didn't they care when I did the last story about him? Why do they care now?"
I knew what story Ade was referring to, since it was in the Standard about six weeks ago, right around the time Nwankiti Ogechi first disappeared without a trace. I remembered the huge black question mark above the caption "Where is Nwankiti?" And I remembered that the article was full of worried quotes from his family and colleagues. It was nothing like the first Standard feature I'd read about him, titled "A Saint among Us," which had focused on his activism, on his pro-democracy rallies that filled the stadium at Surulere.
"I am telling Ade we should wait, sir," the other guest was saying. "Let him do the interview with Big Oga. We can do the Nwankiti Ogechi story later."
"No way!" Ade burst out, and if I had not known that slightly shrill voice, it would have been hard for me to imagine the round, laughing Ade sounding that way, so angry. "They don't want Nwankiti Ogechi to become an issue now. Simple! And you know what it means, it means they have wasted him! Which one is for Big Oga to try and bribe me with an interview? I ask you, eh, which one is that?"
Papa cut him short then, but I could not hear much of what he said, because he spoke in low, soothing tones, as though he were calming Ade down. The next thing I heard him say was, "Come, let us go to my study. My children are eating."
They walked past us on their way upstairs. Ade smiled as he greeted us, but it was a strained smile. "Can I come and finish the food for you?" he teased me, making a mock attempt to swoop down on my food.
After lunch, as I sat in my room, studying, I tried hard to hear what Papa and Ade Coker were saying in the study. But I couldn't. Jaja walked past the study a few times, but when I looked at him, he shook his head-he could hear nothing through the closed door, either.
It was that evening, before dinner, that the government agents came, the men in black who yanked hibiscuses off as they left, the men Jaja said had come to bribe Papa with a truckful of dollars, the men Papa asked to get out of our house.
When we got the next edition of the Standard, I knew it would have Nwankiti Ogechi on its cover. The story was detailed, angry, full of quotes from someone called The Source. Soldiers shot Nwankiti Ogechi in a bush in Minna. And then they poured acid on his body to melt his flesh off his bones, to kill him even when he was already dead.
During family time, while Papa and I played chess, Papa winning, we heard on the radio that Nigeria had been suspended from the Commonwealth because of the murder, that Canada and Holland were recalling their ambassadors in protest. The newscaster read a small portion of the press release from the Canadian government, which referred to Nwankiti Ogechi as "a man of honor."
Papa looked up from the board and said, "It was coming to this. I knew it would come to this."
Some men arrived just after we had dinner, and I heard Sisi tell Papa that they said they were from the Democratic Coalition. They stayed on the patio with Papa, and even though I tried to, I could not hear their conversation.
The next day, more guests came during dinner. And even more the day after. They all told Papa to be careful. Stop going to work in your official car. Don't go to public places. Remember the bomb blast at the airport when a civil rights lawyer was traveling. Remember the one at the stadium during the pro-democracy meeting. Lock your doors. Remember the man shot in his bedroom by men wearing black masks.
Mama told me and Jaja. She looked scared when she talked, and I wanted to pat her shoulder and tell her Papa would be fine. I knew he and Ade Coker worked with truth, and I knew he would be fine. "Do you think Godless men have any sense?" Papa asked every night at dinner, often after a long stretch of silence. He seemed to drink a lot of water at dinner, and I would watch him, wondering if his hands were really shaking or if I was imagining it.
Jaja and I did not talk about the many people who came to the house. I wanted to talk about it, but Jaja looked away when I brought it up with my eyes, and he changed the subject when I spoke of it. The only time I heard him say anything about it was when Aunty Ifeoma called to find out how Papa was doing, because she had heard about the furor the Standard story had caused. Papa was not home, and so she spoke to Mama. Afterward, Mama gave the phone to Jaja. "Aunty, they won't touch Papa," I heard Jaja say. "They know he has many foreign connections." As I listened to Jaja go on to tell Aunty Ifeoma that the gardener had planted the hibiscus stalks, but that it was still too early to tell if they would live, I wondered why he had never said that to me about Papa. When I took the phone, Aunty Ifeoma sounded close by and loud. After our greetings, I took a deep breath and said, "Greet Father Amadi."
"He asks about you and Jaja all the time," Aunty Ifeoma said. "Hold on, nne, Amaka is here."
"Kambili, he kwanu?" Amaka sounded different on the phone. Breezy. Less likely to start an argument. Less likely to sneer-or maybe that was simply because I would not see the sneer.
"I'm fine," I said. "Thank you. Thank you for the painting."
"I thought you might want to keep it." Amaka's voice was still hoarse whe
n she spoke of Papa-Nnukwu.
"Thank you," I whispered. I had not known that Amaka even thought of me, even knew what I wanted, even knew that I wanted.
"You know Papa-Nnukwu's akwam ozu is next week?"
"Yes."
"We will wear white. Black is too depressing, especially that shade people wear to mourn, like burnt wood. I will lead the dance of the grandchildren." She sounded proud.
"He will rest in peace," I said. I wondered if she could tell that I, too, wanted to wear white, to join the funeral dance of the grandchildren.
"Yes, he will." There was a pause. "Thanks to Uncle Eugene."
I didn't know what to say. I felt as if I were standing on a floor where a child had spilled talcum powder and I would have to walk carefully so as not to slip and fall. "Papa-Nnukwu really worried about having a proper funeral," Amaka said. "Now I know he'll rest in peace. Uncle Eugene gave Mom so much money she's buying seven cows for the funeral!"
"That's nice." A mumble.
"I hope you and Jaja can come for Easter. The apparitions are still going on, so maybe we can go on pilgrimage to Aokpe this time, if that will make Uncle Eugene say yes. And I am doing my confirmation on Easter Sunday and I want you and Jaja to be there."
"I want to go, too," I said, smiling, because the words I had just said, the whole conversation with Amaka, were dreamlike. I thought about my own confirmation, last year at St. Agnes. Papa had bought my white lace dress and a soft, layered veil, which the women in Mamas prayer group touched, crowding around me after Mass. The bishop had trouble lifting the veil from my face to make the sign of the cross on my forehead and say, "Ruth, be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit." Ruth. Papa had chosen my confirmation name.
"Have you picked a confirmation name?" I asked.
"No," Amaka said. "Ngwanu, Mom wants to remind Aunty Beatrice of something."
"Greet Chima and Obiora," I said, before I handed the phone to Mama.
Back in my room, I stared at my textbook and wondered if Father Amadi had really asked about us or it Aunty Ifeoma had said so out of courtesy, so it would be that he remembered us, just as we remembered him. But Aunty Ifeoma was not like that. She would not say it if he had not asked. I wondered if he had asked about us, Jaja and me at the same time, like asking about two things that went together. Corn and ube. Rice and stew. Yam and oil. Or if he had separated us, asked about me and then about Jaja. When I heard Papa come home from work, I roused myself and looked at my book. I had been doodling on a sheet of paper, stick figures, and "Father Amadi" written over and over again. I tore up the piece of paper.
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