The Reader With Elliot Ziwira
WHEN the fanatically religious entrench power unto themselves, close their eyes and ears to discernment, suffering and reason and remorselessly punish their real or perceived enemies to such an extent that they become deities or even God’s equals on earth, would it be rational to separate religion from politics?

Wouldn’t it be only appropriate to surmise that religion is as oppressive as politics, in that it creates platforms for deceit, intolerance and adamancy, which burden the individual psyche?

Does religion not inform docility and gullibility as it dictates what is norm, in the same way that politics does? What really is the difference between religious fanaticism and political tyranny, if individuals are reduced to mere flies — that can be swatted willy-nilly?

Political egos and religious egos — are they not inseparable?

These and many more feelings will always ring in one’s mind as the travails of life seem to proffer more questions than answers, as faith and belief take centre stage. It is this that has prompted the philosopher Heraclitus (540-475BC), to insist that harmony and disharmony are inseparable; because the essence of harmony resides in strife and tension.

Wishing opposition and suffering away is the same as clamouring for the death of harmony, so he reasons.

The belief in the divinity of the supernatural, as posited by philosophers Homer and Hesiod, Heraclitus’ predecessors, causes “all things that are shameful and a reproach among mankind: theft, adultery and mutual deception,” (Fragment 11, Freeman).

Xenophanes (600BC), observes that although men have created gods in their own images, there really is “one God . . . neither in form like unto mortals nor in thought . . . He sees all over, thinks all over, and hears all over . . . Without toil he swayeth all things by the thought of his mind,”(Fragment 25, Burnet).

Suffice to say that Man is both a product and creator of his own beliefs; it is only through his faith that he shapes his world, which in turn is moulded by an omniscient and omnipresent power-God; so then why is the world inundated by this hullabaloo about religious wars emanating from a warped belief that one religion should be considered superior to others? Is religious compromise not possible after all?

It is against this backdrop that the reading of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel “Purple Hibiscus” (2004) is not only entertaining but apt, compelling and revealing as it questions the nature of love, oppression, imprisonment and suffering through religious and political phenomena. The book unravels the complex analogies that exist between religion and politics which expose individual foibles as they interact and intertwine with the national discourse.

The writer explores the oppressive nature of religion on the individual psyche, the need for tolerance and compromise as well as hypocritical tendencies in religious circles, in the same way that Mongo Beti does, though satirically, in “Mission to Kala” (1957). Jameson Gadzira also effectively brings different religious voices to fruitful convergence in “Wounds” (2007)

“Purple Hibiscus” is the story of Eugene, a learned philanthropic businessman and publisher, told through his 15 year-old daughter Kambili. Eugene is intolerant of failure and “heathens” because he is a Christian-Catholic to be precise. He hardly speaks Igbo, and the narrator tells us that: “We had to sound civilized in public . . . We had to speak English.” However his sister, Aunty Ifeoma, who is a University lecturer, thinks that: “He was too much of a colonial product,” especially so because he was raised by catholic missionaries.

Adichie examines how Christianity creates individuals who shun their own traditional beliefs and at the same time oppress those close to them, by drawing analogies between Christianity and Traditional African Religion. Eugene is at loggerheads with his father Papa-Nnukwu whom he calls a heathen because of his beliefs.

Although he is known for his generosity and philanthropic work for the poor, widowed, orphaned and disabled, Eugene does not give a hoot about his father’s welfare, neither does he visit him nor allow him into his two abodes; the rural and urban; all because he refuses to be converted to Christianity. He only allows his children 15-minute visits to their grandfather’s compound which is just five minutes away from their Abba home; with strict instructions that they should not touch or eat anything.

Because of his hard-handedness, he is reminded by his sister that he “has to stop doing God’s job. God is big enough to do his own job. If God will judge our father for choosing to follow the way of our ancestors, then let God do the judging.” However, Eugene’s extremism cannot allow him to be rationale.

He is neither a priest nor pastor, but he finds faulty with everyone including those priests that he finds too loud, enthusiastic or liberal; and equates them to “the mushroom Pentecostal” denominations which he always slams.

To him, Christianity is not about rejoicing or exposing exuberant enthusiasm; it is a serious thing, calling for seriousness at all times. Laughter does not ring in his house, and his children, Jaja and Kambili as well as his wife Beatrice are always subdued; and cannot even speak in raised voices or smile. They are not even allowed to watch TV or listen to music and live their lives through schedules. Failure to adhere to strict catholic regulations or becoming second in anything, school included, is punishable.

Eugene’s voice is authority and he appears to be larger than life. Through the use of the first person narrative voice, especially that of an innocent child who believes that laughing, smiling or looking at one’s reflection in the mirror is sin, Adichie allows the reader to make his/her own interpretations on the fictional experience as authorial voice is kept to the background.

Kambili chronicles how her mother suffers two miscarriages as a result of the many brutal attacks she suffers at the hands of her unforgiving husband; how she once was punished for coming second in class and for eating 10 minutes before Mass; how their legs were scalded for not telling their father that they shared the same room with their grandfather, a “heathen” at their aunt’s place when they visit for the first time in their lives; how she regained consciousness in hospital and has to write her examinations there because of the insane attack from her father for trying to protect the pieces of their grandfather’s painting shred by their father; and how the 17 year-Jaja has his finger incapacitated.

Though she has been made to believe that heathens are different from Christians, Kambili is taken aback by her grandfather’s prayer: “Chineke! I have killed no one, I have taken no one’s land, I have not committed adultery…Chineke! Bless my son, Eugene. Let the sun not set on his prosperity.”

After scalding her feet, Kambili is told by her father: “That is what you do to yourself when you walk into sin. You burn your feet.” When his father dies Eugene does not mourn and he does not go to the funeral because his sister refuses to have him buried like a catholic because he was not one. Begrudgingly he offers money to buy seven head of cattle for Papa-Nnukwu’s funeral, complaining that “pagan funerals are expensive.”

It is ironic that Eugene purports to be fighting against political tyranny through his newspaper, the Standard, and yet at the same time he oppresses his family; psychologically, physically and emotionally. His editor says of his children: “Imagine what the Standard would be if we were all quiet.”

As he causes suffering through silence and subjugation to those harbouring diverse views, he cannot be a champion of democracy, as his tyrannical nature shows itself above his hypocritical philanthropy. The military government which he lambasts through his editor Ade Coker, who sadly dies at the brutal hand of The Head of State, is no worse than him.

Silence as a weapon against oppression is claustrophobic as it leaves a trail of destruction. Kambili only finds her voice, laughter and smile through the outgoing, energetic and outspoken young priest, Father Amadi, a regular visitor at her aunt’s place; and because she has never been exposed to love and intimacy, her heart falls for him; but he does not encourage her, which pains her. Jaja also develops through exposure at Nsukka.

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