Adichie, The Purple Hibiscus, and Kambili's Father

 

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – My favourite author.

I came upon Adichie’s PURPLE HIBISCUS by chance. One of those surprises reading addicts come upon, surfing through Goodreads or Amazon in a fallow week. I suppose the fact that the story was set in Eastern Nigeria helped.

   I lived in Enugu and Ikot Ekpene for five years, from 1962 to 1967. If you could probe into my psyche, you may find that I am, at the core, a lot African, a little Eastern Nigerian. I taught at two teacher-training colleges run by Irish (Holy Rosary Training College), and American (Holy Child College, Ifuho) nuns. You may even decide I am not very impartial when I talk about Nigeria. Mea Culpa.

   Nevertheless:

   I found Nigerians kind, compassionate, hospitable and tolerant. At Ifuho, I had many Nigerian friends. The young practising teachers came to my house regularly. They introduced me to Nigerian food and music and took me ‘shopping’ in the waste ground in town they called their market. I was searching for coconut oil for my hair, in typical Keralam fahion. I remember urchins tugging at my long knee-length plait – was it real? What I got was palm oil; my hair did not disagree with palm oil.

   Adichie’s story of the girl, Kambili, and her mother and brother, bullied by their father, is told with grace, humour and empathy. Not to mention the unmistakable skill of a great writer. However, the father is not your typical Nigerian man. It is a bit like saying all Romans are Nero. Or, all British people are buffoons like Boris Johnson. Let’s not go there.

   I have a Nigerian neighbour – when I am alone in my house sometimes in the night, because my family is out of town, I go to them. I sleep there. When I lost my little girl in Nigeria, the Nigerians held me up; they helped me out of that dark tunnel, which is bereavement.

   So, do not, please, lump all Nigerians with one character, in a novel.