Review for Purple Hibiscus: Brokenhearted Forever Love

Awhile back, I finished reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus, a novel I picked up at a bookstore beside my farmer’s market on a whim. I had previously read her short story in response to Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and heard great things about Americanah and Half of a Yellow Sun, and it was on sale too. So, I picked up the orange and yellow cover, not even reading the back of it to know its general outline and stashed it away on my “to be read” pile without thinking twice. I didn’t pick up the book again until I finished my summer course (and completed my degree!).

What a shame I didn’t pick it up sooner. At base, the story follows a young woman from Enugu, Nigeria named Kambili who lives with her brother, Jaja, in their parent’s mansion. The story quickly reveals the forceful control that their father has over the house and specifically how he maintains such control. I would garner a trigger warning for anyone who has experienced domestic abuse from a parental or spousal figure in their life. However, if you feel comfortable enough to ride the wave of those emotions that Kambili, Jaja, and their mother experience, then I promise it is worth it.

Before beginning this novel, I was run down from the past year and had been taking it out on my relationship with literature. I thought that books were the reason I had burnt out so badly and felt it to be a chore to just pick up a novel and read. I think Ms. Adichie’s book might have pulled me out of that funk, even if it was just for her and her alone.

It’s really a mystery to me how she can claim her audiences so effortlessly. None of the diction ever feels slow or forced and is strange in its ability to make pain so natural to connect to. When Kambili physically cannot bring herself to say something in a situation that certainly calls for it, I feel the lump in my throat and the inability to produce any words myself. Yet, where I can’t find myself connecting to Kambili, there is always another character to pick up the slack. Throughout the read, in some chapters I aligned myself with Kambili’s outspoken and daring cousin, Amaka. Sometimes the wisdom of her Aunty Ifeoma would strike so profoundly that I emulated her for the rest of the day, and then sometimes I found myself acting like Jaja as he lays relaxed on the floor, watching television with his cousin Obiora. Adichie’s characters simply never let the audience down as every single one has the depth of a main protagonist. However, the only aspect of the characters that raised my eyebrows was the romance story between Kambili and the pastor from her aunt’s hometown of Nsukka, Nigeria. It felt uneasy to support a fully grown man’s romantic eyes for a fifteen-year-old girl, even if she also shared the sentiments. However, what this branch of the story facilitated was a gateway into understanding the profound impact that Christianity has on both Kambili and her community more broadly.

The story clearly outlines two worlds in one country: the one side that considers Christianity to be the correct way to practice faith, and the other that still holds pre-colonial traditions in high regard. Eugene, Kambili’s father, is of the former opinion, and further adopts a hostile approach to anyone that practices the latter, being his sister Ifeoma and his father. Eugene provides his family with exactly what Western ideals preach as a good life: money, shelter, quality food, a solid spiritual upbringing, and a top tier education. His attention and care to every detail of his children and wife's lives is supposed to translate as love, which it does in some ways, especially for Kambili. Yet, the outcome is objectively one of manipulation, smothering, and multiple forms of abuse. How should Kambili react in this situation? So many have less than her, but those same people often also have so much more than her. Father Amadi then strikes the perfect balance of these two worlds, which creates the ideal human for Kambili, perpetually caught between her respect for her father and her curiosity for the joy she observes in Aunty Ifeoma’s life. Amadi is then a symbol for the desire to reject choosing either or, which makes the impossibility and uneasiness of their relationship that much more heartbreaking.

What I left this book feeling was just that: heartbreak. Adichie succinctly and boldly paints a clear lesson that I find is often rejected but nonetheless true. When it comes to relationships, between loved ones, friends, and maybe even your faith and philosophies, nothing will ever have one answer, one path, or one outcome. While some things may feel or be simple, the hard stuff never is and often leaves us with no pure feelings, but mixed and bittersweet ones instead. Although she illustrates this lesson with the utmost gentility, I think it still hit me a little harder than I thought it would. But that is what good books do!

Aside from that, I recommend this novel because it is so beautifully written. Her settings are extremely lovely, and the imagery of the plant life throughout gives the entire narrative a necessary brightness and vibrancy. It is smart, layered, and taught me something, which is more than I can ask for in a good book. And I hope it teaches you something when you pick it up to read it, too, as you should!