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Things started to fall apart at home when my brother, Jaja, did not go to communion and Papa flung his heavy missal across the room and broke the gurines on the tagre We had just returned from church Mama placed the fresh palm fronds, which were wet with holy water, on the dining table and then went upstairs to change Later, she would knot the palm fronds into sagging cross shapes and hang them on the wall beside our gold framed family photo They would stay there until next Ash Wednesday, when we would take the fronds to church, to have them burned for ash Papa, wearing a long, gray robe like the rest of the oblates, helped distribute ash every year His line moved the slowest because he pressed hard on each forehead to make a perfect cross with his ash covered thumb and slowly, meaningfully enunciated every word of dust and unto dust you shall returnPapa always sat in the front pew for Mass, at the end beside the middle aisle, with Mama, Jaja, and me sitting next to him He was first to receive communion Most people did not kneel to receive communion at the marble altar, with the blond life size Virgin Mary mounted nearby, but Papa did He would hold his eyes shut so hard that his face tightened into a grimace, and then he would stick his tongue out as far as it could go Afterward, he sat back on his seat and watched the rest of the congregation troop to the altar, palms pressed together and extended, like a saucer held sideways, just as Father Benedict had taught them to do Even though Father Benedict had been at St Agnes for seven years, people still referred to him as our new priest Perhaps they would not have if he had not been white He still looked new The colors of his face, the colors of condensed milk and a cut open soursop, had not tanned at all in the erce heat of seven Nigerian harmattans And his British nose was still as pinched and as narrow as it always was, the same nose that had had me worried that he did not get enough air when he first came to Enugu Father Benedict had changed things in the parish, such as insisting that the Credo and kyrie be recited only in Latin Igbo was not acceptable Also, hand clapping was to be kept at a minimum, lest the solemnity of Mass be compromised But he allowed offertory songs in Igbo he called them native songs, and when he said native his straight line lips turned down at the corners to form an inverted U During his sermons, Father Benedict usually referred to the pope, Papa, and Jesus in that order He used Papa to illustrate the gospels When we let our light shine before men, we are reflecting Christ s Triumphant Entry, he said that Palm Sunday Look at Brother Eugene He could have chosen to be like other Big Men in this country, he could have decided to sit at home and do nothing after the coup, to make sure the government did not threaten his businesses But no, he used the Standard to speak the truth even though it meant the paper lost advertising Brother Eugene spoke out for freedom How many of us have stood up for the truth How many of us have re ected the Triumphant Entry The congregation said Yes or God bless him or Amen, but not too loudly so they would not sound like the mushroom Pentecostal churches then they listened intently, quietly Even the babies stopped crying, as if they, too, were listening On some Sundays, the congregation listened closely even when Father Benedict talked about things everybody already knew, about Papa making the biggest donations to Peter s pence and St Vincent de Paul Or about Papa paying for the cartons of communion wine, for the new ovens at the convent where the Reverend Sisters baked the host, for the new wing to St Agnes Hospital where Father Benedict gave extreme unction And I would sit with my knees pressed together, next to Jaja, trying hard to keep my face blank, to keep the pride from showing, because Papa said modesty was very importantPapa himself would have a blank face when I looked at him, the kind of expression he had in the photo when they did the big story on him after Amnesty World gave him a human rights award It was the only time he allowed himself to be featured in the paper His editor, Ade Coker, had insisted on it, saying Papa deserved it, saying Papa was too modest Mama told me and Jaja Papa did not tell us such things That blank look would remain on his face until Father Benedict ended the sermon, until it was time for communion After Papa took communion, he sat back and watched the congregation walk to the altar and, after Mass, reported to Father Benedict, with concern, when a person missed communion on two successive Sundays He always encouraged Father Benedict to call and win that person back into the fold nothing but mortal sin would keep a person away from communion two Sundays in a rowSo when Papa did not see Jaja go to the altar that Palm Sunday when everything changed, he banged his leatherbound missal, with the red and green ribbons peeking out, down on the dining table when we got home The table was glass, heavy glass It shook, as did the palm fronds on itJaja, you did not go to communion, Papa said quietly, almost a questionJaja stared at the missal on the table as though he were addressing it The wafer gives me bad breathI stared at Jaja Had something come loose in his head Papa insisted we call it the host because host came close to capturing the essence, the sacredness, of Christ s body Wafer was too secular, wafer was what one of Papa s factories made chocolate wafer, banana wafer, what people bought their children to give them a treat better than biscuitsAnd the priest keeps touching my mouth and it nauseates me, Jaja said He knew I was looking at him, that my shocked eyes begged him to seal his mouth, but he did not look at meIt is the body of our Lord Papa s voice was low, very low His face looked swollen already, with pus tipped rashes spread across every inch, but it seemed to be swelling evenYou cannot stop receiving the body of our Lord It is death, you know thatThen I will die Fear had darkened Jaja s eyes to the color of coal tar, but he looked Papa in the face now Then I will die, PapaPapa looked around the room quickly, as if searching for proof that something had fallen from the high ceiling, something he had never thought would fall He picked up the missal and flung it across the room, toward Jaja It missed Jaja completely, but it hit the glass tager, which Mama polished often It cracked the top shelf, swept the beige, finger size ceramic figurines of ballet dancers in various contorted postures to the hard floor and then landed after them Or rather it landed on their many pieces It lay there, a huge leatherbound missal that contained the readings for all three cycles of the church yearJaja did not move Papa swayed from side to side I stood at the door, watching them The ceiling fan spun round and round, and the light bulbs attached to it clinked against one another Then Mama came in, her rubber slippers making slap slap sounds on the marble floor She had changed from her sequined Sunday wrapper and the blouse with puffy sleeves Now she had a plain tie dye wrapper tied loosely around her waist and that white T shirt she wore every other day It was a souvenir from a spiritual retreat she and Papa had attended the words GOD IS LOVE crawled over her sagging breasts She stared at the figurine pieces on the floor and then knelt and started to pick them up with her bare handsThe silence was broken only by the whir of the ceiling fan as it sliced through the still air Although our spacious dining room gave way to an even wider living room, I felt suffocated The off white walls with the framed photos of Grandfather were narrowing, bearing down on me Even the glass dining table was moving toward me Nne, ngwa Go and change, Mama said to me, startling me although her Igbo words were low and calming In the same breath, without pausing, she said to Papa, Your tea is getting cold, and to Jaja, Come and help me, bikoPapa sat down at the table and poured his tea from the china tea set with pink flowers on the edges I waited for him to ask Jaja and me to take a sip, as he always did A love sip, he called it, because you shared the little things you loved with the people you loved Have a love sip, he would say, and Jaja would go first Then I would hold the cup with both hands and raise it to my lips One sip The tea was always too hot, always burned my tongue, and if lunch was something peppery, my raw tongue suffered But it didn t matter, because I knew that when the tea burned my tongue, it burned Papa s love into me But Papa didn t say, Have a love sip he didn t say anything as I watched him raise the cup to his lipsJaja knelt beside Mama, flattened the church bulletin he held into a dustpan, and placed a jagged ceramic piece on it Careful, Mama, or those pieces will cut your fingers, he saidI pulled at one of the cornrows underneath my black church scarf to make sure I was not dreaming Why were they acting so normal, Jaja and Mama, as if they did not know what had just happened And why was Papa drinking his tea quietly, as if Jaja had not just talked back to him Slowly, I turned and headed upstairs to change out of my red Sunday dressI sat at my bedroom window after I changed the cashew tree was so close I could reach out and pluck a leaf if it were not for the silver colored crisscross of mosquito netting The bell shaped yellow fruits hung lazily, drawing buzzing bees that bumped against my window s netting I heard Papa walk upstairs to his room for his afternoon siesta I closed my eyes, sat still, waiting to hear him call Jaja, to hear Ce texte fait r f rence une dition puis e ou non disponible de ce titreA sensitive and touching story of a child exposed too early to religious intolerance and the uglier side of the Nigerian state JM Coetzee A breathtaking debut Adichie is very much the st century daughter of that other great Igbo novelist, Chinua Achebe The Washington Post Book World Remarkably originalat once seductive, tender and true Jason Cowley, The TimesAdichie s understanding of a young girl s heart is so acute that her story ultimately rises above its setting and makes her little part of Nigeria seem as close and vivid as Eudora Welty s Mississippi The Boston Globe Ce texte fait r f rence une dition puis e ou non disponible de ce titre Purple Hibiscus

About the Author: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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