Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Content Warning: Domestic abuse

As a reader, there is an unexplained satisfaction when the novel of a book is casually entwined in a passage: “Jaja’s defiance seemed to me now like Aunty Ifeoma’s experimental purple hibiscus: rare, fragrant with the undertones of freedom...A freedom to be, to do” (16). 

I was introduced to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s work through her Ted Talk, “We Should All Be Feminists”, later adapted into a collection of personal essays under the same name. In the pocket-sized paperback that is We Should All Be Feminists, Ngozi Adichie articulates succinct and incontrovertible truths on the global value of feminism. While her non-fiction work opens discussion on social and human rights subjects, her storytelling skills build on these themes while invoking rich imagery of the Nigerian landscape. Most of her novels toggle between two worlds, that is, the expectations of Westernization and the reality of her homeland. 

Her first novel, Purple Hibiscus, navigates intricate familial bonds through the eyes of  15-year-old Kambili. Kambili lives comfortably in Enugu, with her mother, father, and older brother, Jaja. Papa, an entrepreneur and publisher for a dissenting newspaper, bankrolls most of the town and the Church of St. Agnes. His generosity makes him an exalted community member. Yet, the same hands that offer crisp naira bills to beggars also execute vicious beatings on his family. 

Papa is severely penitent, and his anglicized religious devotion morphs into religious intolerance. He controls every aspect of the lives of his wife and children. The family prays incessantly, for so long that the food on the table goes cold. When he thinks his children have “walked with sin”, he pours scalding water over their feet. He believes his punishments are love. 

“Everything I do for you, I do for your own good” (196)

Aunty Ifeoma, Papa’s sister, is a buoyant lifeline for the family. She insists Kambili and Jaja come to stay with her in Nsukka, where she is a professor at the University. This is the first time that they have left home without their parents. The sheltered children are contrasted against their boisterous cousins, yet they experience profound normalcy that could never be attained in the sterile compound of Enugu. 

Kambili is conditioned by Papa’s religious intolerance, inhibited by feelings of guilt, shame, and disappointment. In Nsukka, however, she discovers her happiness within the kerosene-stained walls of her aunt’s flat. Here, she is out from under the thumb of her oppressive father, content watching the children catch aku from the verandah. She learns to laugh, run, and speak her mind. She wears her first pair of shorts, and surreptitiously swipes on her cousin’s lipstick. For both siblings, Nsukka exposes the hypocrisy of their father, leaving the siblings questioning everything they’ve been drilled to believe, including their own faith. 

The soul of this novel lies in the relationships between characters. Specifically, the vibrant and supportive dynamics between the women of the family. Aunty Ifeoma’s independence encourages her sister-in-law (perhaps too much, as the reader discovers): “Nwunye m, sometimes life starts when marriage ends” (75). With Kambili, Aunty Ifeoma is understanding of her trauma but pushes her to find her voice. I was comforted by the exchanges between Kambili and Amaka, who are close in age yet vastly differ in identity. Amaka, outspoken and prideful, resents Kambili for her privilege, yet Kambili is in awe of the confidence and autonomy of her cousin. 

“Nwunye m, sometimes life starts when marriage ends.”

I was hoping that we would get more insight to Jaja’s thoughts as the novel developed, especially during the drastic resolution, but he remained a stoic supporting character throughout. 

While her work is translated in over 30 different languages, Ngozi Adichie’s prose captures the ethos of her home country across contexts. She keeps Igbo words in the translated texts, most of them (as I inferred) related to family, food, and tradition. Keeping remnants of the Nigerian language preserves the integrity and connotations of the words as Ngozi Adichie understands them in her native tongue. 

The novel resolves itself in an unexpected turn of events, an extreme act by someone pushed too far. I would not recommend Purple Hibiscus as an introduction to Ngozi Adichie’s work, because it would be more readily appreciated as a cap to her anthology. Purple Hibiscus satiated my craving for something distinct from the hits on The New York Times Best Sellers List, yet left me longing for more of Ngozi Adichie’s sage understanding of the world.