To be honest, when I first saw the front of Adichie’s debut novel, my instinct was to place it back on the bookshelf and walk away. And, believe me when I say this, I KNOW not to judge a book by its cover, but how could I, a mere kid of TWELVE, have been attracted to a jacket that displayed a somewhat blurry female clutching a violet flower?? Sorry, but NO WAY.
That’s where Dad came in. He promptly chose that particular book as his weekend-read and the next thing I know, he placed the book on my bedside table with four simple words taped to it; “Must Read; Brilliant Book.”
I kind of had a minor heart-attack right on the spot, because my FATHER just praised something. My FATHER!!!!!!! The last time he uttered the words “Brilliant” was when Hakan Sukur scored his first FIFA goal within eleven -ELEVEN!!- seconds of the match starting.
The next thing I knew, my arms, as if on autopilot, stretched out, grabbed the paperback, commanded my butt to seat itself on a chair and my eyes started a long pleasurable journey.
It’s a book with something for everyone; young love for the romantics, an almost-devilish father [who thinks he’s doing the right thing] for the people who generally hate others and, of course, a brilliant story for the general bookworms.
There isn’t a single word in Purple Hibiscus I would edit. There isn’t a sentence I would replace. There isn’t a paragraph that was slightly out of place. Everything fit like jigsaw pieces; without even a slight edge of awkwardness.
I enjoyed the book immensely. The last fifty pages are but a blur because of the pace I was reading them. I wanted to know more, to reach the end and relieve my mind of this constant burning sensation that commanded me to read as quickly as possible and waste no time to figure out how it all ended.
Purple Hibiscus is a gem in itself; a carefully plotted masterpiece that I wish I could relive.
Thank you, Adichie, for penning out a novel that will forever more haunt me.