Aunty Ifeoma came hurrying out to the verandah, drying her hands in front of her shorts. She hugged Mama and then led her into the living room, supporting her as one would support a cripple.
'Where is Jaja?' Mama asked.
'He is out with Obiora,' Aunty Ifeoma said. 'Sit down, nwunye m. Amaka, get money from my purse and go and buy a soft drink for your Aunty.'
'Don't worry, I will drink water,' Mama said.
'We have not had light, the water will not be cold.'
'It does not matter. I will drink it.' Mama sat carefully at the edge of a cane chair. Her eyes were glazed over as she looked around. I knew she could not see the picture with the cracked frame or the fresh African lilies in the oriental vase. 'I do not know if my head is correct,' she said, and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, in the way that one checks the degree of a fever. 'I got back from the hospital today. The doctor told me to rest, but I took Eugene's money and asked Kevin to take me to the park. I hired a taxi and came here.'
'You were in hospital? What happened?' Aunty Ifeoma asked quietly.
Mama looked around the room. She stared at the wall clock for a while, the one with the broken second hand, before she turned to me. 'You know that small table where we keep the family Bible, nne? Your father broke it on my belly.' She sounded as if she were talking about someone else, as if the table were not made of sturdy wood. 'My blood finished on that floor even before he took me to St. Agnes. My doctor said there was nothing he could do to save it.'
Mama shook her head slowly. A thin line of tears crawled down her cheeks as though it had been a struggle for them to get out of her eyes.
'To save it?' Aunty Ifeoma whispered. 'What do you mean?'
'I was six weeks gone.'
'Ektvuzina! Don't say that again!' Aunty Ifeoma's eyes widened.
'It is true. Eugene did not know, I had not yet told him, but it is true.' Mama slid down to the floor. She sat with her legs stretched out in front of her. It was so undignified, but I lowered myself and sat next to her, our shoulders touching. She cried for a long time. She cried until my hand, clasped in hers, felt stiff. She cried until Aunty Ifeoma finished cooking the rotting meat in a spicy stew. She cried until she fell asleep, her head against the seat of the chair. Jaja laid her on a mattress on the living room floor.
Papa called that evening, as we sat around the kerosene lamp on the verandah. Aunty Ifeoma answered the phone and came out to tell Mama who it was. 'I hung up. I told him I would not let you come to the phone.'
Mama flew up from her stool. 'Why? Why?'
'Ntvunye m, sit down right now!' Aunty Ifeoma snapped.
But Mama did not sit down. She went into Aunty Ifeoma's room and called Papa. The phone rang shortly afterward, and I knew he had called back. She emerged from the room after about a quarter of an hour. 'We are leaving tomorrow. The children and I,' she said, staring straight ahead, above everyone's eye level.
'Leaving for where?' Aunty Ifeoma asked.
'Enugu. We're going back home.'
'Has a nut come loose in your head, gbo? You are not going anywhere.'
'Eugene is coming himself to pick us up.'
'Listen to me.' Aunty Ifeoma softened her voice; she must have known the firm voice would not penetrate the fixed smile on Mama's face. Mama's eyes were still glazed, but she looked like a different woman from the one who had come out of the taxi that morning. She looked possessed by a different demon. 'At least stay a few days, nwunye m, don't go back so soon.'
Mama shook her head. Except for the stiff stretch of her lips, she was expressionless. 'Eugene has not been well. He has been having migraines and fever,' she said. 'He is carrying more than any man should carry. Do you know what Ade's death did to him? It is too much for one person.'
'Ginidi, what are you saying?' Aunty Ifeoma swiped impatiently at an insect that flew close to her ears. 'When Ifediora was alive, there were times, nwunye m, when the university did not pay salaries for months. Ifediora and I had nothing, eh, yet he never raised a hand to me.'
'Do you know that Eugene pays the school fees of up to a hundred of our people? Do you know how many people are alive because of your brother?' 'That is not the point and you know it.'
'Where would I go if I leave Eugene's house? Tell me, where would I go?' She did not wait for Aunty Ifeoma to respond. 'Do you know how many mothers pushed their daughters at him? Do you know how many asked him to impregnate them, even, and not to bother paying a bride price?'
'And so? I ask you-and so?' Aunty Ifeoma was shouting now.
Mama lowered herself to the floor. Obiora had spread a mat and there was room on it, but she sat on the bare cement, resting her head against the railings. 'You have come again with your university talk, Ifeoma,' she said, mildly, and then looked away to signal that the conversation was over. I had never seen Mama like that, never seen that look in her eyes, never heard her say so much in such a short time.
Long after she and Aunty Ifeoma had gone to bed, I sat on the verandah with Amaka and Obiora, playing whot-Obiora had taught me to play all the card games. 'Last card!' Amaka announced, smug, placing down a card.
'I hope Aunty Beatrice sleeps well,' Obiora said, picking up a card. 'She should have taken a mattress. The mat is hard.'
'She'll be fine,' Amaka said. She looked at me and repeated, 'She'll be fine.'
Obiora reached out and patted my shoulder. I did not know what to do, so I asked 'It's my turn?' even though I knew it was.
'Uncle Eugene is not a bad man, really,' Amaka said. 'People have problems, people make mistakes.'
'Mh,' Obiora said, pushing his glasses up.
'I mean, some people can't deal with stress,' Amaka said, looking at Obiora as though she expected him to say something. He remained silent, examining the card he held up to his face. Amaka picked up an extra card. 'He paid for Papa-Nnukwu's funeral, after all.' She was still watching Obiora. But he made no response to her; instead, he placed his card down and said, 'Check up!' He had won again.
As I lay in bed, I did not think about going back to Enugu; I thought about how many card games I had lost.
When Papa arrived in the Mercedes, Mama packed our bags herself and put them in the car. Papa hugged Mama, holding her close, and she rested her head on his chest. Papa had lost weight; usually, Mama's small hands barely went round to his back, but this time her hands rested on the small of his back. I did not notice the rashes on his face until I came close to hug him. They were like tiny pimples, each with whitish pus at the tips, and they covered the whole of his face, even his eyelids. His face looked swollen, oily, discolored. I had intended to hug him and have him kiss my forehead, but instead I stood there and stared at his face. 'I have a little allergy,' he said. 'Nothing serious.' When he took me in his arms, I closed my eyes as he kissed my forehead.
'We will see you soon,' Amaka whispered before we hugged good-bye. She called me nwanne m nwanyi-my sister. She stood outside the flat, waving, until I could no longer see her through the rear windscreen.
When Papa started the rosary as we drove out of the compound, his voice was different, tired. I stared at the back of his neck, which was not covered by the pimples, and it looked different, too-smaller, with thinner folds of skin.
I turned to look at Jaja. I wanted our eyes to meet, so I could tell him how much I had wanted to spend Easter in Nsukka, how much I had wanted to attend Amaka's confirmation and Father Amadi's Pascal Mass, how I had planned to sing with my voice raised. But Jaja glued his eyes to the window, and except for muttering the prayers, he was silent until we got to Enugu. The scent of fruits filled my nose when Adamu opened our compound gates. It was as if the high walls locked in the scent of the ripening cashews and mangoes and avocados. It nauseated me.
'See, the purple hibiscuses are about to bloom,' Jaja said, as we got out of the car. He was pointing, although I did not need him to. I could see the sleepy, oval-shape buds in the front yard as they swayed in the evening breeze.
The next day was Palm Sunday, the day Jaja did not go to communion, the day Papa threw his heavy missal across the room and broke the figurines.
