PURPLE HISBISCUS BY CHIMAMANDA

Ade Coker was a small, round, laughing man. Every time I saw him, I tried to
imagine him writing those editorials in the Standard; I tried to imagine him defying the
soldiers. And I could not. He looked like a stuffed doll, and because he was always
smiling, the deep dimples in his pillowy cheeks looked like permanent fixtures, as
though someone had sunk a stick into his cheeks. Even his glasses looked dollish: they
were thicker than window louvers an opening in a door or window that has one or more slanted strips, tinted a strange  bluish having a blue tinge; slightly blue.
shade, and framed in white
plastic. He was throwing his baby, a perfectly round copy of himself, in the air when we
came in. His little daughter was standing close to him, asking him to throw her in the air,
too.

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