I stared at Papa. Why was he asking me to climb into the tub? I looked around the bathroom floor; there was no stick anywhere. Maybe he would keep me in the bathroom and then go downstairs, out through the kitchen, to break a stick off one of the trees in the backyard. When Jaja and I were younger, from elementary two until about elementary five, he asked us to get the stick ourselves. We always chose whistling pine because the branches were malleable, not as painful as the stiffer branches from the gmelina or the avocado. And Jaja soaked the sticks in cold water because he said that made them less painful when they landed on your body. The older we got, though, the smaller the branches we brought, until Papa started to go out himself to get the stick.
“Climb into the tub,” Papa said again.
I stepped into the tub and stood looking at him. It didn’t seem that he was going to get a stick, and I felt fear, stinging and raw, fill my bladder and my ears. I did not know what he was going to do to me. It was easier when I saw a stick, because I could rub my palms together and tighten the muscles of my calves in preparation. He had never asked me to stand inside a tub. Then I noticed the kettle on the floor, close to Papa’s feet, the green kettle Sisi used to boil hot water for tea and garri, the one that whistled when the water started to boil. Papa picked it up. “You knew your grandfather was coming to Nsukka, did you not?” he asked in Igbo.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Did you pick up the phone and inform me of this, gbo?”
“No.”
“You knew you would be sleeping in the same house as a heathen?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“So you saw the sin clearly and you walked right into it?”
I nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Kambili, you are precious.” His voice quavered now, like someone speaking at a funeral, choked with emotion. “You should strive for perfection. You should not see sin and walk right into it.” He lowered the kettle into the tub, tilted it toward my feet. He poured the hot water on my feet, slowly, as if he were conducting an experiment and wanted to see what would happen. He was crying now, tears streaming down his face. I saw the moist steam before I saw the water. I watched the water leave the kettle, flowing almost in slow motion in an arc to my feet. The pain of contact was so pure, so scalding, I felt nothing for a second. And then I screamed.
“That is what you do to yourself when you walk into sin. You burn your feet,” he said.
I wanted to say “Yes, Papa,” because he was right, but the burning on my feet was climbing up, in swift courses of excruciating pain, to my head and lips and eyes. Papa was holding me with one wide hand, pouring the water carefully with the other. I did not know that the sobbing voice—“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”—was mine until the water stopped and I realized my mouth was moving and the words were still coming out. Papa put the kettle down, wiped at his eyes. I stood in the scalding tub; I was too scared to move—the skin of my feet would peel off if I tried to step out of the tub.
Papa put his hands under my arms to carry me out, but I heard Mama say, “Let me, please.” I did not realize that Mama h
ad come into the bathroom. Tears were running down her face. Her nose was running, too, and I wondered if she would wipe it before it got to her mouth, before she would have to taste it. She mixed salt with cold water and gently plastered the gritty mixture onto my feet. She helped me out of the tub, made to carry me on her back to my room, but I shook my head. She was too small. We might both fall. Mama did not speak until we were in my room. “You should take Panadol,” she said.
I nodded and let her give me the tablets, although I knew they would do little for my feet, now throbbing to a steady, searing pulse. “Did you go to Jaja’s room?” I asked, and Mama nodded. She did not tell me about him, and I did not ask.
“The skin of my feet will be bloated tomorrow,” I said.
“Your feet will be healed in time for school,” Mama said.
After Mama left, I stared at the closed door, at the smooth surface, and thought about the doors in Nsukka and their peeling blue paint. I thought about Father Amadi’s musical voice, about the wide gap that showed between Amaka’s teeth when she laughed, about Aunty Ifeoma stirring stew at her kerosene stove. I thought about Obiora pushing his glasses up his nose and Chima curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. I got up and hobbled over to get the painting of Papa-Nnukwu from my bag. It was still in the black wrapping. Even though it was in an obscure side pocket of my bag, I was too scared to unwrap it. Papa would know, somehow. He would smell the painting in his house. I ran my finger along the plastic wrapping, over the slight ridges of paint that melded into the lean form of Papa-Nnukwu, the relaxed fold of arms, the long legs stretched out in front of him.
I had just hobbled back to my bed when Papa opened the door and came in. He knew. I wanted to shift and rearrange myself on the bed, as if that would hide what I had just done. I wanted to search his eyes to know what he knew, how he had found out about the painting. But I did not, could not. Fear. I was familiar with fear, yet each time I felt it, it was never the same as the other times, as though it came in different flavors and colors.
“Everything I do for you, I do for your own good,” Papa said. “You know that?”
“Yes, Papa.” I still was not sure if he knew about the painting.
He sat on my bed and held my hand. “I committed a sin against my own body once,” he said. “And the good father, the one I lived with while I went to St. Gregory’s, came in and saw me. He asked me to boil water for tea. He poured the water in a bowl and soaked my hands in it.” Papa was looking right into my eyes. I did not know he had committed any sins, that he could commit any sins. “I never sinned against my own body again. The good father did that for my own good.” he said.
After Papa left, I did not think about his hands soaked in hot water for tea, the skin peeling off, his face set in tight lines of pain. Instead I thought about the painting of Papa-Nnukwu in my bag.
I DID NOT GET a chance to tell Jaja about the painting until the next day, a Saturday, when he came into my room during study time. He wore thick socks and placed his feet gingerly one after the other, as I did. But we did not talk about our padded feet. After he felt the painting with his finger, he said he had something to show me, too. We went downstairs to the kitchen. It was wrapped in black cellophane paper, as well, and he had lodged it in the refrigerator, beneath bottles of Fanta. When he saw my puzzled look, he said they weren’t just sticks; they were stalks of purple hibiscus. He would give them to the gardener. It was still harmattan and the earth was thirsty, but Aunty Ifeoma said the stalks might take root and grow if they were watered regularly, that hibiscuses didn’t like too much water, but they didn’t like to be too dry, either.
Jaja’s eyes shone as he talked about the hibiscuses, as he held them out so I could touch the cold, moist sticks. He had told Papa about them, yet he quickly put them back into the fridge when we heard Papa coming.
LUNCH WAS YAM PORRIDGE, the smell wafting around the house even before we went to the dining table. It smelled good—pieces of dried fish drifting in yellow sauce alongside the greens and cubed yams. After prayers, as Mama dished out the food, Papa said, “These pagan funerals are expensive. One fetish group will ask for a cow, then a witch doctor will demand a goat for some god of stone, then another cow for the hamlet and another for the umuada. Nobody ever asks why the so-called gods don’t ever eat the animals and instead greedy men share the meat among themselves. The death of a person is just an excuse for heathens to feast.”
I wondered why Papa was saying this, what had prompted him. The rest of us remained silent while Mama finished dishing out the food.
“I sent Ifeoma money for the funeral. I gave her all she needed,” Papa said. After a pause, he added, “For nna anyi’s funeral.”
“Thanks be to God,” Mama said, and Jaja and I repeated her.