Чимаманда Адичи - Purple hibiscus

That night, I dreamed that I was laughing, but it did not sound like my laughter, although I was not sure what laughter sounded like. It was cackling and throaty and enthusiastic, like Aunty Ifeoma's.

Papa drove us to Christmas Mass at St. Pauls.

Aunty Ifeoma and her children were climbing into their station wagon as we drove into the sprawling church compound. They waited for Papa to stop the Mercedes and then came over to greet us. Aunty Ifeoma said they had gone to the early Mass and they would see us at lunchtime. She looked taller, even more fearless, in a red wrapper and high heels. Amaka wore the same bright red lipstick as her mother; it made her teeth seem whiter when she smiled and said, "Merry Christmas."

Although I tried to concentrate on Mass, I kept thinking of Amaka's lipstick, wondering what it felt like to run color over your lips. It was even harder to keep my mind on Mass because the priest, who spoke Igbo throughout, did not talk about the gospel during the sermon. Instead he talked about zinc and cement. "You people think I ate the money for the zinc, okwia?" he shouted, gesticulating, pointing accusingly at the congregation. "After all, how many of you give to church, gbo? How can we build the house if you don't give? Do you think zinc and cement cost a mere ten kobo?"

Papa wished the priest would talk about something else, something about the birth in the manger, about the shepher and the guiding star; I knew from the way Papa held his missal too tight, the way he shifted often on the pew. We were sitting in the first pew. An usher wearing a Blessed Virgin Mary medal on her white cotton dress had rushed forward to seat us, telling Papa in loud, urgent whispers that the front pews were reserved for the important people; Chief Umeadi, the only man in Abba whose house was bigger than ours, sat on our left, and His Royal Highness, the Igwe, was on our right. The lЈ came over to shake Papa's hand during Peace and Love, he said, "Nno nu, I will stop by later, so we can greet property tsofl.

After Mass, we accompanied Papa to a fund-raising in the multipurpose hall next to the church building. It was for the priest's new house. An usher with a scarf tied tight across his forehead passed out pamphlets with pictures of the priest's house, uncertain arrows pointing at where the roof leaked, where termites had eaten up the door frames. Papa wrote a check and handed it to the usher, telling her he did not want to make a speech. When the M.C. announced the amount, the priest got up and started to dance, jerking his behind this way and that, and the crowd rose up and cheered so loudly it was like the rumblings of thunder at the end of the rainy season.

"Let's go," Papa said, when the M.C. finally moved on to announce a new donation. He led the way out of the hall, waving at the many hands that reached out to grasp his white tunic as if 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.

"Come 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 sun dried skin the color and texture of groundnut husks.

"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.

"If 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. "The girl is a ripe agbogho! Very soon a strong young man will 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.

"Go 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 etagere. I went over to join them, starting to pace my breathing so that I would not stutter.

"That's a stereo, isn't it? Why don't you play some music? Or are you bored with the stereo, too?" Amaka asked, her plac eyes darting from Jaja to me.

"Yes, 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. "No wonder you don't play the stereo, everything in here is so dull!" she said.

"They'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 with the 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."

"I hope you didn't break anything," Aunty Ifeoma said.

"I didn't," Chima said. "Can we put the TV on?"

"No," 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 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.

"I 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 another human being. It was an ungodly tradition, bowing to an lЈ.

So, a few days later, when we went to see the bishop at Awl< 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 spirit of discernment: the bishop was a man of God; the Igwe was merely a traditional ruler.