I first read Purple Hibiscus not long after its publication in 2004. Then, because it had found its way onto one or two GCSE specifications, in 2010 I was commissioned by Philip Allan Updates (later taken over by Hodder Education) to write a book-length study guide. And that, of course, meant intimate knowledge of the text rather than casual acquaintanceship. Rereading it now, I am struck more than ever by its poignant power and the number of themes and issues it ranges over – a pretty extraordinary achievement for a debut novel, which I don’t think has dated at all in the twenty years since its publication.
The narrator, Kambili, is the younger child of a prominent, very wealthy and staunchly – bigotedly – Catholic Nigerian (Igbo). We know from the first page that beneath the religiosity and altruism that this is not a happy home. Eugene (“Papa”) is guilty of appalling domestic abuse, the details of which make the soles of my feet go clammy so I’m not going to describe his actions here. Yet, Kambili almost worships him and is totally absorbed in his brand of Christianity because he’s a very complex character rather than a straightforward monster. He is a more generous financial supporter to hundreds of people than even his own family realises and is deeply respected in his community. He genuinely believes that ALL his actions are the will of God.
The novel, which eclectically but seamlessly discusses colonialism, imposed religion, the significance of language, political corruption, education, adolescent sexuality and a lot more along with ruthless dictatorship within family life, opens on the day when things fell apart. That’s a reference to Chinua Achebe’s most famous novel which took its title from WB Yeats. Chimanda Ngozi Adiche was (and is) richly influenced by the work of the much older Achebe who died in 2013. It is Palm Sunday when the falling apart occurs. Jaja, Kambili’s older brother, finally rebels by refusing to take communion which results in his father hurling a heavy missal at him. It misses Jaja but breaks all Mama’s figurines on the étagère – which are symbolically significant. Thereafter three quarters of the rather neatly structured novel is an expositional flashback working its way back to that momentous Palm Sunday and what happened thereafter.
Adiche is very good at contrasts to draw attention to what she wants you to notice. When Kambili and Jaja go to stay with Papa’s widowed sister Aunty Ifeoma, who is a university lecturer, they find three cousins who are encouraged to explore ideas and respectfully express views. They laugh a lot but live very humbly. The university is full of corruption and rebellion. Aunty Ifeoma’s job is under threat because she speaks her mind. She and her family live in the sort of make-do and mend poverty, the like of which Kambili has never before seen or imagined. But there’s real happiness there. The same contrast comes through the family of Ade Coker, editor of the newspaper Papa owns although he is denied the positive ending which Aunty Ifeoma gets.
The first time I read this novel I simply couldn’t imagine how Adiche could end it and the denouement took me by surprise so of course I’m not going to spoil it here for readers new to Purple Hibiscus. It is, actually, quite clearly flagged up but I doubt you’ll notice at first reading. Suffice it to say that we eventually get tragedy seasoned with muted positivity.
There is nothing overtly didactic about this fine novel. It’s a well told, warmly accessible story, compellingly presented but, my goodness, there’s a lot there if you look for it and take the time to think about it.
Next week on Susan’s Bookshelves: Offshore by Penelope Fitzgerald
