Tagged: Nigeria

13. Reading: Purple Hibiscus

My expectations were high. I would already consider myself a fan of Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie since I first saw her TED talk about the danger of a single story. A few months later, she published Americanah, which I devoured. Then I started to have a look at her other works as well, and have only recently gotten my hands on Purple Hibiscus (Fourth Estate, 2004). And even though I would say I am not disappointed, I have to admit that it’s the weakest of her works so far. (Admitting also that I did not read her short stories because I don’t like short stories as a genre.) Now when I say weak I don’t mean not convincing, or that the plot had serious flaws or anything. My judgement here is entirely based on the book’s affective qualities, which are still pretty high, but not quite Americanah-level.

Without telling to much about the story, let’s just say it’s a coming-of-age novel/Bildungsroman situated in a dictatorship-ridden Nigeria, where fifteen year-old Kambili struggles to find her way and voice between the worlds dominated by her religiously fanatic father Eugene and her open-minded and pragmatic aunt Ifeoma. As Daria Tunca has analyzed in her article An Ambiguous”Freedom Song”, the narrative voice might quite well be intentionally flat or emotionless. Personally, I wouldn’t even go as far, because from the hints we get at how Kambili, her mother and her brother are beaten by her father, her narrative voice might as well reflect trauma.

How did I come across the book?

I have read backwards through the oevre of Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, starting with Americanah, followed by Half of a Yellow Sun, and when I found out Purple Hibiscus wasn’t a collection of short stories, I finally read that one two. However, the other way around might have been more impressing. All three are immensely enjoyable, but I would say I liked Americanah best, so far.

When and where did I read it?

During my two weeks home office at my parents place, the book acompanied me on local train rides, several nights before sleep, and the train ride back to Constance, where I basically didn’t put it down for some 150 pages. As I said, it’s not a bad read at all.


10. Reading: Things Fall Apart

“50th Anniversary Edition” it says on the title – a phrase that always makes me wonder what makes books, or rather, the stories they present, endure. Acknowledging my bias for contemporary – if not postmodern – if not recent – literature (meaning I’d be surprised to find more than 5 books in my shelves that are older than 40 years), 50th anniversary editions are not something that regularly ends up in my bookshelf. Now Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (1994 [1959], First Anchor Books) did. I am struggling with labels such as “truly African”, which is how Achebe’s prose is labeled in the backpart of the book. I find this problematic especially thinking of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s TED talk about the dangers of a Single Story, because it perpetuates imageries of an exotic Africa, that “still” organizes in “tribes”. What is worse, that’s exactly the kind of condescending colonialist logic the writer quite eloquently exposes in the novel.

Achebe does this in two ways: there is first, the story. It’s the story of Okonkwo, a man from an Igbo tribe in times of expanding colonialism, and his coping mechanisms with this new order of things. As the title suggests, these mechanisms do not work out well, and the reader presences continuous backlashes and misfortunes, interpreted through the lense of Igbo beliefs. After showing how colonialist expansion and christian belief turn the Igbo order of things upside down and endanger and disappear people, their beliefs and traditions, Achebe’s final twist is the exposition of the appropriation of a story of conquest through the lense of the British colonizer, who, in the worst ethnographic tradition, writes a book about the “Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger”, when really there was no need to pacify, and the only thing primitive in the story is the white man’s racism and ignorance.

The second way in which Achebe criticizes the colonial appropriation of the narrative of conquest is more a question of style. At first, readers used to certain mainstream noveistic prose may find it challenging to read. But then, at least for me, there was a point when it dawned on me that this style is actually an impressive way of writing orally. The book comes across as a story told by one of the village elders themselves, and imitates the style they would tell tales. The text is full of proverbs, often following a path and an episode for illustration of a point, without ever coming back to it: the threads are not knotted together, but left open for the reader/listener to find her own interpretation of what to do with the episode. In this way, the style metaphorically doubles Achebe’s critique in pointing out to the reader her own (eurocentric) prejudices and expectations about how stories should be written.

How did I come across the book?

This one was recommended to me by Amazon. Their algorythm probably didn’t have too much trouble getting from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie to Chinua Achebe, not only because they’re from the same country, but also because she lists him as one of her inspirations. Which was the reason for me to read it, and surprised me insofar as I expected something different, probably closer to her books. In the end then, this was a lesson in expectation management as well, which made something clear to me: Inspirations does not mean immitation, necessarily.

When and where did I read it?

Mostly at home, before bedtime, since this was the only opportunity I had to actually read, in the last weeks. The end of the semester took its toll on me with yet another conference and correcting my student’s works.

“A child’s fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm.” p.67