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.
