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.
'Good afternoon, sir, nno,' I said to the Igwe when I got downstairs.
The hairs that peeked out of his wide nose quivered as he smiled at me and said, 'Our daughter, kedu?'
One of the smaller sitting rooms had been cleared for him and his wife and four assistants, one of whom was fanning him with a gilded fan although the air conditioner was on. Another was fanning his wife, a woman with yellow skin and rows and rows of jewelry hanging round her neck, gold pendants, beads and corals. The scarf wound around her head flared over in front, wide like a banana leaf and so high that I imagined the person sitting behind her in church having to stand up to see the altar. I watched Aunty Ifeoma sink to one knee and say, 'Igwe,' in the raised voice of a respectful salute, watched him pat her back. The gold sequins that covered his tunic glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Amaka bowed deeply before him. Mama, Jaja, and Obiora shook hands with him, respectfully enclosing his hand in both of theirs.
I stood at the door a little longer, to make sure that Papa saw that I did not go close enough to the Igwe to bow to him.
Back upstairs, Mama and Aunty Ifeoma went into Me room. Chima and Obiora stretched out on the rug, playing ^ the what cards that Obiora had discovered in his pocket. Amaka wanted to see a book Jaja told her he had brought, they went into Jaja's room. I sat on the sofa, watching my cousins play with the cards. I did not understand the game, nor why at intervals one of them yelled 'Donkey!' amid laughter. The stereo had stopped. I got up and went into the hallway, standing by Mama's bedroom door. I wanted to go in and sit with Mama and Aunty Ifeoma, but instead I just stood still, listening. Mama was whispering; I could barely make out the words 'there are many full gas cylinders lying around in the factory.' She was trying to persuade Aunty Ifeoma to ask Papa for them. Aunty Ifeoma was whispering, too, but I heard her well. Her whisper was like her-tall, exuberant, fearless, loud, larger than life. 'Have you forgotten that Eugene offered to buy me a car, even before Ifediora died? But first he wanted us to join the Knights of St. John. He wanted us to send Amaka to convent school. He even wanted me to stop wearing makeup! I want a new car, numnye m, and I want to use my gas cooker again and I want a new freezer and I want money so that I will not have to 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.'
'Ifeoma, if you…' Mama's soft voice trailed off again. 'You 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, goo? Yet Eugene will not let him into this house, will not even greet him. Ojoka! Eugene has to stop doing God's job. God is big enough to do his own job. If God will judge our father for choosing 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.
'Did 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 curtain 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 ridi fufu and two different soups, fried chicken and beef, salad and cream-like someone who would not have an opportunity to eat again soon. Strips of lettuce reached across from the edge of her plate to touch the dining table.
'Do 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.
'Eugene, 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.'
'The children don't like to be away from home,' Papa said.
'That'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.
'If Papa says it is all right,' Jaja said.
Papa smiled at Jaja, and I wished I had said that. 'Maybe the next time they are on holiday,' Papa said, firmly. He expected Aunty Ifeoma to let it go.
'Eugene, 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.'
'Ngwanu, we will see,' Papa said. He spoke Igbo for the first time, his brows almost meeting in a quick frown.
'Ifeoma was saying that they just called off a strike,' Mama said.
'Are things getting any better in Nsukka?' Papa asked, reverting to English. 'The university is living on past glory nowadays.'
Aunty Ifeoma narrowed her eyes. 'Have you ever picked up the phone and called me to ask me that question, eh, Eugene? Will your hands wither away if you pick up the phone one day and call your sister, gbo?' Her Igbo words had a teasing but the steeliness in her tone created a knot in my throat. 'I did call you, Ifeoma.'
'How long ago was that? I ask you-how long ago was that?' Aunty Ifeoma put her fork down. She sat still for a long tense moment, as still as Papa was, as still as we all were.
Finally Mama cleared her throat and asked Papa if the bottle of juice was empty. 'Yes,' Papa said. 'Ask that girl to bring more bottled juice.'
Mama got up to call Sisi. The long bottles Sisi brought looked as though they contained an elegant liquid, the way they tapered like a slender, shapely woman.
Papa poured for everyone and proposed a toast. 'To the spirit of Christmas and the glory of God.' We repeated after him in a chorus. Obiora's sentence had a lift at the end, and it came out sounding like a question: 'to the glory of God?'
'And to us, and to the spirit of family,' Aunty Ifeoma added before she drank.
'Does your factory make this, Uncle Eugene?' Amaka asked, squinting to see what was written on the bottles.
'Yes,' Papa answered.
'It's a little too sweet. It would be nicer if you reduced the sugar in it.' Amaka's tone was as polite and normal as ever conversation with an older person. I was not sure if Papa nodded or if his head simply moved as he chewed. Another knot formed in my throat, and I could not get a mouthful of rice down. I knocked my glass over as I reached for it, and blood-colored juice crept over the white lace tablecloth. Mama hastily placed a napkin on the spot, and when she raised the reddened napkin, I remembered her blood on the stairs.
'Did you hear about Aokpe, Uncle Eugene?' Amaka asked. 'It's a tiny village in Benue. The Blessed Virgin is appearing there.'
I wondered how Amaka did it, how she opened her mouth and had words flow easily out.
