Free Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Igbo accent. He knew Latin, too, often quoted the articles of Vatican I, and spent most of his time at St. Paul’s, where he had been the first catechist. He had insisted that we call him Grandfather, in English, rather than Papa-Nnukwu or Nna-Ochie. Papa still talked about him often, his eyes proud, as if Grandfather were his own father. He opened his eyes before many of our peopledid, Papa would say; he was one of the few who welcomed the missionaries. Do you know how quickly he learned English? When he became an interpreter, do you know how many converts he helped win? Why, he converted most of Abba himself! He did things the right way, the way the white people did, not what our people do now! Papa had a photo of Grandfather, in the full regalia of the Knights of St. John, framed in deep mahogany and hung on our wall back in Enugu. I did not need that photo to remember Grandfather, though. I was only ten when he died, but I remembered his almost-green albino eyes, the way he seemed to use the word
sinner
in every sentence.
    â€œPapa-Nnukwu does not look as healthy as last year,” I whispered close to Jaja’s ear as we drove off. I did not want Kevin to hear.
    â€œHe is an old man,” Jaja said.
    When we got home, Sisi brought up our lunch, rice and fried beef, on fawn-colored elegant plates, and Jaja and I ate alone. The church council meeting had started, and we heard the male voices rise sometimes in argument, just as we heard the up-down cadence of the female voices in the backyard, the wives of our umunna who were oiling pots to make them easier to wash later and grinding spices in wooden mortars and starting fires underneath the tripods.
    â€œWill you confess it?” I asked Jaja, as we ate.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat you said today, that if we were thirsty, we would drink in Papa-Nnukwu’s house. You know we can’t drink in Papa-Nnukwu’s house,” I said.
    â€œI just wanted to say something to make him feel better.”
    â€œHe takes it well.”
    â€œHe hides it well,” Jaja said.
    Papa opened the door then and came in. I had not heard him come up the stairs, and besides, I did not think he would come up because the church council meeting was still going on downstairs.
    â€œGood afternoon, Papa,” Jaja and I said.
    â€œKevin said you stayed up to twenty-five minutes with your grandfather. Is that what I told you?” Papa’s voice was low.
    â€œI wasted time, it was my fault,” Jaja said.
    â€œWhat did you do there? Did you eat food sacrificed to idols? Did you desecrate your Christian tongue?”
    I sat frozen; I did not know that tongues could be Christian, too.
    â€œNo,” Jaja said.
    Papa was walking toward Jaja. He spoke entirely in Igbo now. I thought he would pull at Jaja’s ears, that he would tug and yank at the same pace as he spoke, that he would slap Jaja’s face and his palm would make that sound, like a heavy book falling from a library shelf in school. And then he would reach across and slap me on the face with the casualness of reaching for the pepper shaker. But he said, “I want you to finish that food and go to your rooms and pray for forgiveness,” before turning to go back downstairs. The silence he left was heavy but comfortable, like a well-worn, prickly cardigan on a bitter morning.
    â€œYou still have rice on your plate,” Jaja said, finally.
    I nodded and picked up my fork. Then I heard Papa’s raised voice just outside the window and put the fork down.
    â€œWhat is he doing in my house? What is Anikwenwa doing in my house?” The enraged timber in Papa’s voice made myfingers cold at the tips. Jaja and I dashed to the window, and because we could see nothing, we dashed out to the verandah and stood by the pillars.
    Papa was standing in the front yard, near an orange tree, screaming at a wrinkled old man in a torn white singlet and a wrapper wound round his waist. A few