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 when 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.
I tore up many more in the following weeks. They all had 'Father Amadi' written over and over again. On some I tried to capture his voice, using the symbols of music. On others I formed the letters of his name using Roman numerals. I did not need to write his name down to see him, though. I recognized a flash of his gait, that loping, confident stride, in the gardeners. I saw his lean, muscular build in Kevin and, when school resumed, even a flash of his smile in Mother Lucy.
I joined the group of girls on the volleyball field on the second day of school. I did not hear the whispers of 'backyard snob' or the ridiculing laughter. I did not notice the amused pinches they gave one another. I stood waiting with my hands clasped until I was picked. I saw only Father Amadi's clay-coiored face and heard only 'You have good legs for running.'
It rained heavily the day Ade Coker died, strange, furious rain in the middle of the parched harmattan. Ade Coker was at breakfast with his family when a courier delivered a package to him. His daughter, in her primary school uniform, was sitting across the table from him. The baby was nearby, in a high chair. His wife was spooning Cerelac into the baby's mouth. Ade Coker was blown up when he opened the package-a package everybody would have known was from the Head of State even if his wife Yewande had not said that Ade Coker looked at the envelope and said 'It has the State House seal' before he opened it.
When Jaja and I came home from school, we were almost drenched by the walk from the car to the front door; the rain was so heavy it had formed a small pool beside the hibiscuses. My feet itched inside my wet leather sandals. Papa was crumpled on a sofa in the living room, sobbing. He seemed so small.
Papa who was so tall that he sometimes lowered his head to get through doorways, that his tailor always used extra fabric to sew his trousers. Now he seemed small; he looked like a rumpled roll of fabric.
'I should have made Ade hold that story,' Papa was saving. 'I should have protected him. I should have made him stop that story.'
Mama held him close to her, cradling his face on her chest. 'No,' she said. 'O zugo. Don't.'
Jaja and I stood watching. I thought about Ade Coker's glasses, I imagined the thick, bluish lenses shattering, the white frames melting into sticky goo. Later, after Mama told us what had happened, how it had happened, Jaja said, 'It was God's will, Papa,' and Papa smiled at Jaja and gently patted his back.
Papa organized Ade Coker's funeral; he set up a trust for Yewande Coker and the children, bought them a new house. He paid the Standard staff huge bonuses and asked them all to take a long leave. Hollows appeared under his eyes during those weeks, as if someone had suctioned the delicate flesh, leaving his eyes sunken in.
My nightmares started then, nightmares in which I saw Ade Coker's charred remains spattered on his dining table, on his daughters school uniform, on his baby's cereal bowl, on his plate of eggs. In some of the nightmares, I was the daughter and the charred remains became Papa's.
Weeks after Ade Coker died, the hollows were still carved under Papas eyes, and there was a slowness in his movements, as though his legs were too heavy to lift, his hands too heavy to swing. He took longer to reply when
