'She came back with you for Christmas a few years ago. Dark and plump?'
'Yes. She is now teaching in America. She shares a cramped office with another adjunct professor, but she says at least teachers are paid there.' Aunty Ifeoma stopped and reached out to brush something off Mama's blouse. I watched every movement she made; I could not tear my ears away. It was the fearlessness about her, about the way she gestured as she spoke, the way she smiled to show that wide gap. 'I have brought out my old kerosene stove,' she continued. 'It is what we use now; we don't even smell the kerosene in the kitchen anymore. Do you know how much a cooking-gas cylinder costs? It is outrageous!'
Mama shifted on the sofa. 'Why don't you tell Eugene? There are gas cylinders in the factory…'
Aunty Ifeoma laughed, patted Mama's shoulder fondly.
'Nwunye m, things are tough, but we are not dying yet. I tell you all these things because it is you. With someone else, I would rub Vaseline on my hungry face until it shone.'
Papa came in then, on his way to his bedroom. I was sure it was to get more stacks of naira notes that he would give to visitors for igba krismas, and then tell them 'It is from God, not me' when they started to sing their thanks.
'Eugene,' Aunty Ifeoma called out. 'I was saying that Jaja and Kambili should spend some time with me and the children tomorrow.'
Papa grunted and kept walking to the door.
'Eugene!' Every time Aunty Ifeoma spoke to Papa, my heart stopped, then started again in a hurry. It was the flippant tone; she did not seem to recognize that it was Papa, that he was different, special. I wanted to reach out and press her lips shut and get some of that shiny bronze lipstick on my fingers.
'Where do you want to take them?' Papa asked, standing by the door.
'Just to look around.'
'Sightseeing?' Papa asked. He spoke English, while Aunty Ifeoma spoke Igbo.
'Eugene, let the children come out with us!' Aunty Ifeoma sounded irritated; her voice was slightly raised. 'Is it not Christmas that we are celebrating, eh? The children have never really spent time with one another. Imakwa, my little one, Chima, does not even know Kambili's name.'
Papa looked at me and then at Mama, searched our faces as if looking for letters beneath our noses, above our foreheads, on our lips, that would spell something he would not like.
'Okay. They can go with you, but you know I do not want my children near anything ungodly. If you drive past mmuo, keep your windows up.'
'I have heard you, Eugene,' Aunty Ifeoma said, with an exaggerated formality.
'Why don't we all have lunch on Christmas day?' Papa asked. 'The children can spend time together then.'
'You know that the children and I spend Christmas day with their Papa-Nnukwu.'
'What do idol worshipers know about Christmas?'
'Eugene…' Aunty Ifeoma took a deep breath. 'Okay the children and I will come on Christmas day.'
Papa had gone back downstairs, and I was still sitting on the sofa, watching Aunty Ifeoma talk to Mama, when my cousins arrived. Amaka was a thinner, teenage copy of her mother. She walked and talked even faster and with more purpose tha Aunty Ifeoma did. Only her eyes were different; they did not have the unconditional warmth of Aunty Ifeoma's. They were quizzical eyes, eyes that asked many questions and did not accept many answers. Obiora was a year younger, very light-skinned, with honey-colored eyes behind thick glasses, and hisl mouth turned up at the sides in a perpetual smile. Chima had skin as dark as the bottom of a burnt pot of rice, and was tall for a boy of seven. They all laughed alike: throaty, cackling sounds pushed out with enthusiasm. They greeted Papa, and when he gave them money for igbal krismas, Amaka and Obiora thanked him, holding out the two thick wads of naira notes. Their eyes were politely surprised, to show that they were not presumptuous, that they had not expected money.
'You have satellite here, don't you?' Amaka asked me. It was the first thing she said after we greeted each other. Her hair was cut short, higher at the front and gradually reducing in an arch until it got to the back of her head, where there was little hair.
'Yes.'
'Can we watch CNN?'
I forced a cough out of my throat; I hoped I would not stutter.
'Maybe tomorrow,' Amaka continued, 'because right now I think we're going to visit my dad's family in Ukpo.'
'We don't watch a lot of TV,' I said.
'Why?' Amaka asked. It was so unlikely that we were the same age, fifteen. She seemed so much older, or maybe it was her striking resemblance to Aunty Ifeoma or the way she stared me right in the eyes. 'Because you're bored with it? If only we all had satellite so everybody could be bored with it.'
I wanted to say I was sorry, that I did not want her to dislike us for not watching satellite. I wanted to tell her that although huge satellite dishes lounged on top of the houses in Enugu and here, we did not watch TV. Papa did not pencil in TV time on our schedules.
But Amaka had turned to her mother, who was sitting hunched with Mama. 'Mom, if we are going to Ukpo, we should leave soon so we can get back before Papa-Nnukwu falls asleep.'
Aunty Ifeoma rose. 'Yes, nne, we should leave.' She held Chima's hand as they all walked downstairs. Amaka said something, pointing at our banister, with its heavy hand carved detail, and Obiora laughed. She did not turn to say good-bye to me, although the boys did and Aunty Ifeoma waved and said, 'I'll see you and Jaja tomorrow.'
Aunty Ifeoma drove into the compound just as we finished breakfast. When she barged into the dining room upstairs, I imagined a proud ancient forebear, walking miles to fetch water in homemade clay pots, nursing babies until they walked and talked, fighting wars with machetes sharpened on sun-warmed stone. She filled a room. 'Are you ready, Jaja and Kambili?' she asked. 'Nuwnye m, will you not come with us?'
Mama shook her head. 'You know Eugene likes me to stay around.'
'Kambili, I think you will be more comfortable in trousers,' Aunty Ifeoma said as we walked to the car.
'I'm fine, Aunty,' I said. I wondered why I did not tell her that all my skirts stopped well past my knees, that I did not own any trousers because it was sinful for a woman to wear trousers. Her Peugeot 504 station wagon was white and rusted to an unpleasant brown at the fenders. Amaka was seated in the front; Obiora and Chima were in the back seat. Jaja and I climbed into the middle seats. Mama stood watching until the car disappeared from her sight. I knew because I felt her eyes and felt her presence. The car made rattling sounds as if some bolts had come loose and were shaking with every rise and fall of the bumpy road. There were gaping rectangular spaces on the dashboard instead of air-conditioner vents, so the windows were kept down. Dust sailed across my mouth, into my eyes and nose.
'We're going to pick up Papa-Nnukwu, he will come with us,' Aunty Ifeoma said.
I felt a lurch in my stomach and I glanced at Jaja. His eyes met mine. What would we tell Papa? Jaja looked away; he did not have an answer.
Before Aunty Ifeoma stopped the engine in front of the mud-and-thatch-enclosed compound, Amaka had opened the front door and bounded out. 'I'll fetch Papa-Nnukwu!' The boys climbed out of the car and followed Amaka past the small wooden gate.
'Don't you want to come out?' Aunty Ifeoma asked, turning to Jaja and me.
I looked away. Jaja was sitting as still as I was. 'You don't want to come into your Papa-Nnukwus compound? But didn't you come to greet him two days ago?' Aunty Ifeoma widened her eyes to stare at us.
'We are not allowed to come here after we've greeted him,' Jaja said.
'What kind of nonsense is that, eh?' Aunty Ifeoma stopped then, perhaps remembering that the rules were not ours. 'Tell me, why do you think your father doesn't want you here?'
'I don't know,' Jaja said.
I sucked my tongue to unfreeze it, tasting the gritty dust. 'Because Papa-Nnukwu is a pagan.' Papa would be proud that I had said that.
'Your Papa-Nnukwu is not a pagan, Kambili, he is a traditionalist,' Aunty Ifeoma said.
I stared at her. Pagan, traditionalist, what did it matter? He was not Catholic, that was all; he was not of the faith. He was one of the people whose conversion we prayed for so that they did not end in the everlasting torment
