“Yes, Father.”
“All right, then, make the Act of Contrition.”
While I recited the Act of Contrition, Father Be
nedict murmured blessings and made the sign of the cross.
Papa and Mama were still sitting on the sofa, heads bent, when I came out. I sat next to Jaja, bent my head, and made my penance.
As we drove home, Papa talked loudly, above the “Ave Maria.” “I am spotless now, we are all spotless. If God calls us right now, we are going straight to Heaven. Straight to Heaven. We will not require the cleansing of Purgatory.” He was smiling, his eyes bright, his hand gently drumming the steering wheel. And he was still smiling when he called Aunty Ifeoma soon after we got back home, before he had his tea.
“I discussed it with Father Benedict, and he says the children can go on pilgrimage to Aokpe but you must make it clear that what is happening there has not been verified by the church.” A pause. “My driver, Kevin, will take them.” A pause. “Tomorrow is too soon. The day after.” A long pause. “Oh, all right. God bless you and the children. Bye.”
Papa put the phone down and turned to us. “You will leave tomorrow, so go up and pack your things. Pack for five days.”
“Yes, Papa,” Jaja and I said together.
“Maybe, anam asi,” Mama said, “they should not visit Ifeoma’s house empty-handed.”
Papa stared at her as if surprised that she had spoken. “We will put some food in the car, of course, yams and rice,” he said.
“Ifeoma mentioned that gas cylinders were scarce in Nsukka.”
“Gas cylinders?”
“Yes, cooking gas. She said she uses her old kerosene stove now. You remember the story of adulterated kerosene that was blowing up stoves and killing people? I thought maybe you might send one or two gas cylinders to her from the factory.”
“Is that what you and Ifeoma planned?”
“Kpa, I am just making a suggestion. It is up to you to decide.”
Papa examined Mama’s face for a while. “Okay,” he said. He turned back to Jaja and me. “Go up and pack your things. You can take twenty minutes from your study time.”
We climbed the curving stairs slowly. I wondered if Jaja’s stomach rumbled at the lower part like mine did. It was the first time in our lives that we would be sleeping outside home without Papa.
“Do you want to go to Nsukka?” I asked when we got to the landing.
“Yes,” he said, and his eyes said that he knew I did, too. And I could not find the words in our eye language to tell him how my throat tightened at the thought of five days without Papa’s voice, without his footsteps on the stairs.
THE NEXT MORNING, Kevin brought two full gas cylinders from Papa’s factory and put them into the boot of the Volvo alongside bags of rice and beans, a few yams, bunches of green plantains, and pineapples. Jaja and I stood by the hibiscus bushes, waiting. The gardener was clipping away at the bougainvillea, taming the flowers that defiantly stuck out of the leveled top. He had raked underneath the frangipani trees, and dead leaves and pink flowers lay in piles, ready for the wheelbarrow.
“Here are your schedules for the week you will stay in Nsukka,” Papa said. The sheet of paper he thrust into my hand was similar to the schedule pasted above my study desk upstairs, except he had penciled in two hours of “time with your cousins” each day.
“The only day you are excused from that schedule is when you go to Aokpe with your aunt,” Papa said. When he hugged Jaja and then me, his hands were shaking. “I have never been without you two for more than a day.”
I did not know what to say, but Jaja nodded and said, “We will see you in a week.”
“Kevin, drive carefully. Do you understand?” Papa asked, as we got in the car.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get petrol on your way back, at Ninth Mile, and don’t forget to bring me the receipt.”
“Yes, sir.”
Papa asked us to get out of the car. He hugged us both again, smoothed the back of our necks, and asked us not to forget to say the full fifteen decades of the rosary during the drive. Mama hugged us one more time before we got back in the car.
“Papa is still waving,” Jaja said, as Kevin nosed the car up the driveway. He was looking in the mirror above his head.