The Death of Vivek Oji(16)

De Chika shrugged and drew back a chair for Aunty Kavita. “What can I say, Ekene? It’s not as if I could sit on him and shave it off by force.”

“Then you should have thrown him out! What nonsense is that?”

“That’s enough, Ekene.” Aunty Kavita’s voice was soft but firm. “He is my son, my only child. I am not turning him away, especially not when he’s sick.”

My father looked as if he was about to say something more, but my mother put her hand on his shoulder as she poured more coffee for him, and he subsided.

I went to the kitchen and spooned thick, glutinous akamu into my bowl, then went back to the table and added a layer of sugar. De Chika took the sugar bowl from me and added two teaspoons to his coffee. At least he wasn’t drinking beer for breakfast anymore. I let my akamu cool off a bit—I liked it when it was a little congealed and starting to form a skin. For a while we ate together in silence, spoons clinking against bowls and coffee cups, until my father leaned over and turned on the radio, the new sound buzzing softly through the room.

“Amma!” Vivek’s voice rang out from my room, and Aunty Kavita’s head whipped up. Even De Chika looked mildly surprised to hear his son’s voice. “Amma!” Vivek called again.

“Yes, beta?” she replied, already getting up from the table, her voice shaking a little. “What is it?”

“Can you come and help me with my hair?”

Aunty Kavita lit up at the request. “Of course, beta! I’m coming.”

My father looked up from his plate. “Mary, you can lend her a pair of scissors, abi?”

Aunty Kavita glared at him as she left the room, and my father sighed. “It was worth a try. Walking around looking like a prophet. Ridiculous.”

De Chika ignored him and unfolded a newspaper, a slice of bread and jam half eaten in front of him. I dipped akara into my bowl and ate it slowly. By the time I finished my breakfast, Vivek and his mother still hadn’t come out of the bedroom. De Chika finally noticed and asked me to check on them.

This time I knocked. “Come in,” called Aunty Kavita, and I pushed the door open. Vivek was sitting in the chair by the window and his mother was running a comb through his hair, now untangled and gleaming, draped over her wrist. He was holding an open container of coconut oil between his thighs and his eyes were half closed. “We’ve almost finished,” she said. “It took a long time to comb it properly.”

“I can imagine,” I said. My aunt smiled absently.

“I always wanted a girl, you know. After Vivek. So I could do her hair.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” I joked, and she actually laughed.

“Not exactly,” she said. “It’s not as if I can plait his hair.”

“You can plait it if you like,” Vivek said, without raising his eyelids.

“Tch!” His mother smacked his shoulder. “Your father would kill me!” She resumed her combing, moving through his hair in slow waves. At this point she was just doing it for the sake of doing it. “No,” she said, almost to herself. “We can’t plait it. I’ll just tie it back so it stops falling into your face. You know that drives your father crazy.” She ran the comb through a few more times, then packed his hair into one hand, smoothing it back from his temples and forehead before securing it with an elastic band at the nape of his neck, twisting it into a clumsy bun. “Manage it like that,” she said. “Your hair is so thick.”

He tilted his head back and smiled at her. “Daal?,” he said, and she bent over to kiss his forehead.

“Come and eat some breakfast. Did you finish eating, Osita?”

“Yes, Aunty.”

She brushed off Vivek’s shirt as he stood up. “What do you want to eat, beta? There’s bread, and I brought some of the jam you used to like, and Aunty Mary made akamu but we might have to heat that up again.” He made a slight face at me as they left the room, his mother’s voice washing solicitous over him. I made a face back to indicate he was on his own, then followed them into the parlor.

“I’m not hungry, Amma.”

“No, you have to eat something. Let me heat up the akamu.” She went into the kitchen and Vivek sat down, both of our fathers eyeing him.

“You look better like that,” De Chika said. “With it tied back.”

I laughed a little. “Ah-ahn, Dede, it’s just hair.” Vivek smiled but we both cleared our faces when my father lowered his newspaper to glare at us.

De Chika turned to me. “How is Nsukka?”

“It’s going well. School is all right. “

“Your mother says you have a girlfriend there. You know, your father was your age when he got married.”

“Don’t mind that boy.” My father’s voice was derisive behind the pages of newsprint. “Play, play, play, that’s the only thing he knows. No real responsibility.”

“You have a girlfriend?” That was Vivek.

“It’s not serious,” I said.

“Your mother says it’s serious,” said De Chika.

“Chika, you and my wife gossip like old women.” My father shook his head. “Shouldn’t she be having those conversations with your wife?”

“Kavita doesn’t find these topics interesting. I do. If you don’t want to take an interest in your son’s life, that’s your own business.” De Chika grinned at my father; he always took a particular pleasure in irritating his senior brother. My father rolled his eyes and returned to his newspaper, but I knew he was still listening.