Amaka piled almost everything on her dish—jollof rice, 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 lilt, 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 to the glory of God.”
We repeated 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 everyday 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 the 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.
Papa spent some time chewing and swallowing before he said, “Yes, I heard about it.”
“I plan to go on pilgrimage there with the children,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Maybe Kambili and Jaja can go with us.”
Amaka looked up quickly, surprised. She started to say something and then stopped.
“Well, the church has not verified the authenticity of the apparitions,” Papa said, staring thoughtfully at his plate.
“You know we will all be dead before the church officially speaks about Aokpe,” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Even if the church says it is not authentic, what matters is why we go, and it is from faith.”