words by Jocelyn Howarth
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s postcolonial debut novel, Purple Hibiscus, follows a fifteen-year-old girl named Kambili in Nigeria during the military rule of General Ibrahim Babangida. The story is a bildungsroman and centres around Kambili’s experience living in a high-walled family estate with a strict religious fanatic for a father. In the backdrop is the unrest and turbulence caused by the wrong-doings of political leaders. Such tensions within and without the family grow throughout the novel, but so do glimmers of hope weaved across the story, and Kambili’s journey is ultimately a fulfilling one.
Adichie opens the novel at a point of rebellion. Jaja, Kambili’s older brother, does not attend communion on Palm Sunday. The family’s life is dictated by both Kambili’s Papa and God. Often, to Kambili they are one and the same: “I had never considered the possibility that Papa would die, that Papa could die… He had seemed immortal.” God is Papa. Papa is God. Both are holy. Kambili and Jaja live according to the schedule their Papa creates, committing their lives to schoolwork, prayer, and family time, and if they defy this order they are punished severely at the hands of Papa. This outward rebellion by Jaja is a reaction to such control, and Adichie takes the reader back several months prior to this moment to show the events that lead to it.
Papa, or Eugene, is a wealthy, strictly Catholic philanthropist who holds influence not just in the Church but in society. He owns several factories that produce various popular foods and drinks, and also owns a newspaper that dares to publish ‘the truth’ about the political events of the country. He is frequently seen passing out money and food to the unfortunate and welcoming people in to share meals during the holidays. He pays for his children to attend the best private schools. He also beats his wife frequently, to the point where it causes miscarriages, beats his children to the point of disfigurement when they fail him, and refuses to offer any help or support to his ageing father, whom he labels as a heathen for not being Christian. He shows little tolerance for those who practise Christianity in a more liberal way, perpetuates the colonial perspective of religion, idolises the English methods of living and faith, and reinforces oppressive patriarchal views through his religion. Adichie succeeds in giving a sinister air to Eugene, even when he is passing money to poverty-stricken people and speaking prayers at the dinner table, for there is an edge of danger to every action of his, an unpredictability to his behaviour that increases the anxiety of both Kambili and the reader. Furthermore, there is no way to prevent or resist him without cruel repercussions, and his children and wife believe him when he says they deserve punishment. To the reader, he is the villain of the story, but to Kambili, he is everything.
When Kambili and Jaja visit their Aunty Ifeoma – Eugene’s sister – and their cousins who live near the university where Ifeoma teaches, they are exposed to a contrasting lifestyle. Where Kambili’s home is large and spacious and clinically white, Aunty Ifeoma’s space is cramped and busy and colourful. This change in setting is a relief to the reader; a chance to see Kambili beyond the watchful eye of her Papa. There is no trace of Papa’s authoritarian control; the cousins – Amaka, Obiora, and Chima – all work together to maintain the household, cook meals, leave whenever they want to see their friends, talk back at each other, and are proud of their different opinions, all the while watched by Aunty Ifeoma with pride. While Jaja settles more easily into the environment, Kambili stays in her shell, thinking of Papa’s rules every time something new happens; this new setting reveals how strong his grip of control over her is, for at every deviation from Papa’s standards, she worries what he will think when, not if, he finds out.
It is at Aunty Ifeoma’s home that Kambili undergoes change and growth. The reader realises the extent to which the trauma of living under Eugene’s control has affected Kambili and her ability to function in other environments. Her Papa’s approval dictates her actions and her ears are attuned to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs; her anxiety around breaking his rules and paranoia at taking even the wrong type of breath at the dinner table are devastatingly justified. Kambili’s emotions are palpable in the text and the reader experiences her stress along with intense sympathy for her. At Aunty Ifeoma’s she discovers more than just a different perspective to Papa’s rigid views. Her way of living is, to her, normal, and witnessing her glimpse the liberties she has been denied is tragic. She sees Obiora, who is only fourteen, being the man of the house, sees Amaka wearing tight clothes and makeup, and even experiences her first crush on a young priest, whose methods of preaching are disliked by her father.
Jaja, too, witnesses all this, and the secret communication through looks between the siblings slowly deteriorates as he starts to quietly reflect on his own realisations. He takes up gardening at Aunty Ifeoma’s, admiring the purple hibiscuses that have flowered in her garden, which contrast with the regularly pruned red hibiscuses that dominate the garden at his home. Aunty Ifeoma, who allows her children to flourish rather than snipping them back, gifts Jaja one of these purple flowers and he plants it in the estate garden, unsure whether it will flower or die.
Adichie weaves the Igbo dialect with English throughout the dialogue of the novel, using it to ground the story in the setting and also to characterise the different environments Kambili enters. Igbo is rejected in favour of Latin in the Church settings favoured by Papa. Hand-clapping and Igbo singing is deemed too disruptive for a formal Catholic service, but is used in abundance in Aunty Ifeoma’s home, where they break out into song while praying and embrace the strength of the music. Purple Hibiscus examines identity through gender, language, faith, and education; the use of Igbo links Kambili to her grandfather, Papa Nnukwu – who she is otherwise isolated from due to his heathen practices – and to her Aunty Ifeoma and cousins.
This novel is extremely easy to get lost in. Fifty pages feel like half the amount. At the beginning, there is a slight drag when the moment of defiance is laid out and then the reader is taken back to the beginning. An impatient reader might struggle to re-engage, but Adichie draws you back in quickly and smoothly. The language is descriptively rich and keeps the settings vivid, each sentence intentionally crafted. Though the story is peppered with death, whether in the background or at the forefront, and suffering, with poverty and struggle, it is not a wholly bleak tale. Hope prevails through Aunty Ifeoma and the strength of her character as a mother, as an educator, and as a woman. As head of the household, she is the antithesis of Papa, encouraging boldness and ambition. When hearing her older cousin talking about her plans for the future, including university, Kambili reflects that she has never thought about her own future because Papa will have a plan for it. She is not in control of her own life, nor is Jaja, and the patriarchal and religious nature of their oppression from Papa removes not just their autonomy, but their opportunities to grow and evolve.
Strong and moving, Purple Hibiscus is a tale that encapsulates the deep-rooted divisions caused by colonisation, religious fanaticism, and domestic violence through the eyes of a young girl gradually nearing adulthood. Kambili and Jaja are quiet yet resilient in the face of their father’s abuse. Though their suffering has stunted them in confidence, they are at last able to grow at Aunty Ifeoma’s, where they are nurtured as individuals rather than extensions of their father. Their potential to become as vibrant as their cousins is made apparent as the book progresses. It is, despite the tragedies that unfold, a hopeful story that will have the reader rooting for Kambili and staying engaged until the end.
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Jocelyn Howarth holds a BA in English and Creative Writing and an MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway University of London. She specialised in fantasy fiction, exploring the characterisations and roles of women in fantasy for her dissertation, while also crafting her own stories. As a writer and aspiring author, Jocelyn avidly reads across a wide range of genres to inform her creative projects and enjoys writing monthly reviews for Zimmer. Based in Manchester, her spare time is spent walking in various nature parks, bouldering at the local climbing centre, and going to the theatre in the city.