Chapter Text
Kambili could never remember what Papa looked like. She never dared to behold his face all at once. It seemed too blasphemous, too reckless.
His furrowed brow still had the faint markings from Ash Wednesday. The soot accumulated in the folds of his skin, making them seem even deeper, like the ink that caught onto Kambili’s palm when she was doing homework. They drew margins on his face, which made her wonder if there was a plan or blueprint for where his facial features were placed. The wrinkles extended to his eyes; eyelids always draped over them as if he were tired. Even if she knew he was, she would still be deterred when his voice was not as lighthearted as usual, as if she had done something wrong that disappointed God and him.
Below his wide nose were his lips, slightly lighter in color than the rest of his face, like the pale clay that molded the figurines. They looked different when he spoke Igbo or English. When using English, in a plausible London accent, he would curl his lips slightly, attempting to hide their thickness. Kambili also thought her lips, as thick as Papa’s, were something she should hide away because God did not have such plump lips. When Papa spoke Igbo, however, his mouth stood out from the rest of the features of his face, opening and slamming shut furiously, making rustling noises like the fluttering wings of Aku. The words that came out subsequently were the sharp pain of “love sips” that lingered on her lips, her senses of taste drowned by the berating heat. It no longer mattered if it was tea, coffee, or just plain water; the burn was all to its flavor.
Kambili took the pain bit by bit until it became a pleasure, just as she took in the world until it made sense; then, she pieced them together and filled in the gaps to form a coherent image. Papa was a colossus, and she could never see the entirety of his image with his height, his greatness, so she used her imagination. In her mind, she nestled in the security and warmth of his gaze like in a womb, peeking out at the world through his pupils, through that small space at the center of the copper-plated iris. To her, that was the only flaw he had. Papa would not allow for any other crevice or opening to exist, as everything had to fit together perfectly, otherwise, it would threaten to fall apart.
She knew her world and her God well. She knew Papa well. But she knew she did not, could not comprehend who Eugene was. Her eyes focused on him like spotlights, only able to see the parts of him that resembled her God.