Day 25: Chimamanda
Things started to fall apart at home when my brother, Jaja, did not go to communion and papa flung his heavy missal across the room and broke the figurines on the étagère- Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
I don’t remember the first time I ever read a chimamanda novel- I oftentimes don’t pay attention to dates- but I remember this line. I had never read any of her novels but I knew of her.
Half of a Yellow sun had been adapted into a film and I had watched it at the time but I wasn’t interested enough to research on the author behind the film. As with movies adapted from books, the movie didn’t do enough justice to the book hence I wasn’t curious yet. This was my pre-social media era, pre- reading anything outside of romance.
Then I randomly stumbled on Purple Hibiscus at a friend’s house. I had gone there to visit and I saw the book lying somewhere in the house. As is typical of me, I cannot pass by a book without checking it out. So I picked it up and read the excerpt at the back of the book. I opened to chapter 1 and this line was the first line I saw. It swept me off my feet. All my years of reading books and never had I encountered an opening that took my breath away the way this one did. It held me spell bound. I was curious about the author. I wanted to know what inspired her to open the book in this manner. What manner of chaos was in store for me when I flipped the pages- I wanted to know.
This line made me read this book. And I have gone on to read several other African fiction and I have chimamanda to thank for opening my mind to a different genre of reading. To a different world that was familiar. It was surreal to be able to relate to the story, to the characters. I could relate to the plot. I cried because I could feel on a deeply personal level, Kambili and Jaja’s plight of having to grow up with a traumatized parent who has turned to the performance of religion-not the soul of it- as a band aid for their brokenness. I could relate to Kambili’s subservience and docility that stemmed from having dysfunctional parent. I empathised with Jaja because at some point in my life, I was him- constantly trying to shield the other parent whose responsibility it was to shield me in the first place. Having to be strong for them and eventually taking on the burden of responsibility that I had no business carrying. I understood the extent of responsibility accorded on me by virtue of birth position that would make me broken for not doing enough to protect the ones I loved.
Purple hibiscus in a way helped me confront past trauma. I paused to cry many times. As I write this, I held back a sob. The first time I finished that book, I couldn’t come to terms with the end. I was upset at Jaja’s mother for being weak till the very end. For allowing her boy shoulder the responsibility of her actions. Why didn’t she fight. She was his mother after all. She did a terrible job protecting him so why not try harder now when the stakes are terribly high. Of course there are no answers and I had to confront myself and get over this book but this is what Chimamanda’s writing can do.
Her writing evokes a part of you that you might have buried. It forces you to confront yourself. The authenticity in the story telling will force you to stop hiding. This I believe is Chimamanda’s brand, even as an individual- her authenticity. It’s why she has continued to inspire me years after finding her.
We teach girls to shrink themselves
To make themselves smaller
We say to girls, ‘you can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful but not too successful otherwise you will threaten the man’
Because I am female, I am expected to aspire to marriage
I’m expected to make my life’s choices always keeping in mind that marriage is the most important- Excerpt from We Should All Be Feminists, Ted Talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
The first time I heard Chimamanda speak was on Beyonce’s Flawless track. It was 2013. I was 18 and in 300l. I was watching Mtv base because back then, all that interested me on TV was music channels. It was obviously a Beyonce’s song but I was taken aback to hear a very Nigerian accent on the track. It got me curious because at the time, it wasn’t yet as cool as it is now to be very Nigerian in the way Chimamanda was, especially on global platforms. The words too. I think that was my first ever introduction to feminism. I sat down to ponder on Chimamanda’s words for a long long time after that video ended.
A couple of years later, I watched her ted talk- The danger of a single story. She had an African print turban tied on her head and as usual, her accent was very Nigerian. Before I got used to her speaking in this very Nigerian accent- not even bearing a tilt or lilt that’s peculiar to American accent or at the very least an immigrant living in America- I used to always watch her talks in fascination. It was refreshing. To see someone who has intentionally held onto her authenticity and not let a new culture rob her of her Africanness. It was refreshing. I started to follow her on instagram and have discovered other parts of her that have gone on to influence me.
I admire how eloquent she sounds. How she is able to pass her point across gracefully and succinctly. Once, I watched an interview of her correct a French interviewer’s notion of Africa in such a graceful manner. I said ahn ahn, as she was speaking to him. Her poise, carriage is admirable.
I love the confidence with which she shows up in the world, in front of a global stage. I watch videos of her speak to an international audience and I marvel at the temerity. First because I have a fear of public speaking so public speakers always have me in awe and secondly because I still struggle in little and big ways, and I’ll tell you one of the not so little ways. I have a very cultural first name hence people who aren’t from my tribe, struggle to pronounce it. Sometimes, people are even rude enough to request for a second, ‘easier’ name. I think this is not only rude but lazy. But here’s the thing, I cave sometimes. I get tired of teaching people how to enunciate my name properly. I get tired of convinving them that contrary to what they believe, they will not bite their tongue in an attempt to pronounce my name. I tire of cajoling them to atleast make a first attempt at calling my preferred name. But everytime I watch Chimamanda not bow to the pressure of conformity, I am empowered to also operate in my own authenticity. So I count to 10 mentally and then I politely tell the rude ones that ‘yes, I do have a second name but no, it is not my preferred name so they’ll have to make do with the one I have presented to them’. I remind myself that it is normal to have to teach people to enunciate an unfamiliar word. We were taught in school to enunciate some difficult English words afterall. Since I have decided to show up as this version of me, I have to uphold it because I’ve seen her uphold hers on a very public platform.
Chimamanda has taught me not to put myself in a box. How I can be many things in the way she too manifests in many ways- a fashionista, a mother, a wife, an author, a feminist, an advocate, a storyteller, an academician. She has taught me to see that I too, can show up in many ways but being my most authentic self should be the primary way. I have learnt not to shrink. To be articulate, in speech and writing. To address conflict gracefully but confidently. I have learnt to put my thoughts together in a coherent fashion and air it. If I must air my thoughts, then it should be coherent. I have learnt to not focus on the noise or external validation but to look inward, always.
Chimamanda continues to teach me to write. As I was about to publish this article, I went back to read an article of hers. I do this often. It’s incredible how one book, has led me to virtually meet one of the most impactful woman of my time.
Time will fail me to delve into The danger of a single story but I’ll end with a quote from that particular Ted talk;
So that is how to create a single story- show a people as one thing, and only one thing, over and over again, and that is what they become.
