Thumbs up for Purple Hibiscus by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie. Literature.
The observant reader of my blog may observe that 20th-century Literature (by which I mean non-genre fiction; a nomenclature I find ridiculous at best) is something I avoid. To put it in briefest possible terms, I find the genre (and that’s why it’s ridiculous: because Literature-with-a-capital-L is a genre even if pretends it’s not), how shall we say it, boring. I can rarely get past page one of any book dealing with modern people doing modern things in a setting with which I am familiar, i.e. America and Britain and to some extent Western Europe. Which is the first reason why I was willing to pick up Purple Hibiscus; it takes place in Nigeria, a place I embarrassingly know nothing about. The second reason, or rather the inspiration, was that I saw Adichie’s wonderful TED Talk. That was what made me read page one. Page one made me read page two. The last page made me wish there was a sequel, just so I could see what happened to the characters later in their lives. It’s a pretty simple story; a young woman and their brother, with the help of their subtly subversive Aunty Ifeoma, break free of the influence of their outwardly laudable, but privately abusive father. The characters were nicely drawn, even the father; I rooted for the main character, Kambili, and I loved Aunty Ifeoma. The flavor and atmosphere of Nigeria come across clearly – the scents, the food, the politics – and I felt as I was reading that I was taking a tiny vacation. Recommended for fans of modern literature…and apparently, some readers who aren’t.
I sat at my bedroom window after I changed; the cashew tree was so close I could reach out and pluck a leaf if it were not for the silver-colored crisscross of mosquito netting. The bell-shaped yellow fruits hung lazily, drawing buzzing bees that bumped against my window’s netting. I heard Papa walk upstairs to his room for his afternoon siesta. I closed my eyes, sat still, waiting to hear him call Jaja, to hear Jaja go into his room. But after long, silent minutes, I opened my eyes and pressed my forehead against the window louvers to look outside. Our yard was wide enough to hold a hundred people dancing atilogu, spacious enough for each dancer to do the usual somersaults and land on the next dancer’s shoulders. The compound walls, topped by coiled electric wires, were so high I could not see the cars driving by on our street. It was early rainy season, and the frangipani trees planted next to the walls already filled the yard with the sickly-sweet scent of their flowers. A row of purple bougainvillea, cut smooth and straight as a buffet table, separated the gnarled trees from the driveway. Closer to the house, vibrant bushes of hibiscus reached out and touched one another as if they were exchanging their petals. The purple plants had started to push out sleepy buds, but most of the flowers were still on the red ones. They seemed to bloom so fast, those red hibiscuses, considering how often Mama cut them to decorate the church altar and how often visitors plucked them as they walked past to their parked cars.
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