Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Read Free Book Online

her mouth: how was Papa doing, was he happy with my progress at Daughters of the Immaculate Heart, would he be at the reception for the bishop next week?
    Papa changed his accent when he spoke, sounding British, just as he did when he spoke to Father Benedict. He was gracious, in the eager-to-please way that he always assumed with the religious, especially with the white religious. As gracious as when he presented the check for refurbishing the Daughters of the Immaculate Heart library. He said he had just come to see my class, and Sister Margaret told him to let her know if he needed anything.
    â€œWhere is Chinwe Jideze?” Papa asked, when we got to the front of my class. A group of girls stood at the door, talking. I looked around, feeling a weight around my temples. What would Papa do? Chinwe’s light-skinned face was at the center of the group, as usual.
    â€œShe is the girl in the middle,” I said. Was Papa going to talk to her? Yank at her ears for coming first? I wanted the ground to open up and swallow the whole compound.
    â€œLook at her,” Papa said. “How many heads does she have?”
    â€œOne.” I did not need to look at her to know that, but I looked at her, anyway.
    Papa pulled a small mirror, the size of a powder compact, from his pocket. “Look in the mirror.”
    I stared at him.
    â€œLook in the mirror.”
    I took the mirror, peered at it.
    â€œHow many heads do you have,
gbo
?” Papa asked, speaking Igbo for the first time.
    â€œOne.”
    â€œThe girl has one head, too, she does not have two. So why did you let her come first?”
    â€œIt will not happen again, Papa.” A light dust lkuku was blowing, in brown spirals like uncoiling springs, and I could taste the sand that settled on my lips.
    â€œWhy do you think I work so hard to give you and Jaja the best? You have to do something with all these privileges. Because God has given you much, he expects much from you. He expects perfection. I didn’t have a father who sent me to the best schools. My father spent his time worshiping gods of wood and stone. I would be nothing today but for the priests and sisters at the mission. I was a houseboy for the parish priest for two years. Yes, a houseboy. Nobody dropped me off at school. I walked eight miles every day to Nimo until I finished elementary school. I was a gardener for the priests while I attended St. Gregory’s Secondary School.”
    I had heard this all before, how hard he had worked, how much the missionary Reverend Sisters and priests had taught him, things he would never have learned from his idol-worshiping father, my Papa-Nnukwu. But I nodded and looked alert. I hoped my class girls were not wondering why my father and I had chosen to come to school to have a long conversation in front of the classroom building. Finally, Papa stopped talking and took the mirror back.
    â€œKevin will be here to pick you up,” he said.
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    â€œBye. Read well.” He hugged me, a brief side hug.
    â€œBye, Papa.” I was watching him walk down the path bordered by flowerless green bushes when the assembly bell rang.
    Assembly was raucous, and Mother Lucy had to say, “Now, girls, may we have silence!” a few times. I stood in the front of the line as always, because the back was for the girls who belonged to cliques, girls who giggled and whispered to one another, shielded from the teachers. The teachers stood on an elevated podium, tall statues in their white-and-blue habits. After we sang a welcoming song from the Catholic Hymnal, Mother Lucy read Matthew chapter five up to verse eleven, and then we sang the national anthem. Singing the national anthem was relatively new at Daughters of the Immaculate Heart. It had started last year, because some parents were concerned that their children did not know the national anthem or the pledge. I watched the sisters as we sang. Only the Nigerian Reverend