Post #13: Page 170

     "Amaka will do it, then," Aunty Ifeoma said.  She unfolded and refolded her wrapper around her waist, knotting it at her side.
     "Why?" Amaka burst out.  "Because rich people do not prepare orah in their houses?  Won't she participate in eating the orah soup?"
     Aunty Ifeoma's eyes hardened--she was not looking at Amaka, she was looking at me.  "O ginidi, Kambili, have you no mouth?  Talk back to her!"
     I watched a wilted African lily fall from its stalk in the garden.  The crotons rustled in the late morning breeze.  "You don't have to shout, Amaka," I said, finally.  "I don't know how to do the orah leaves, but you can show me."  I did not know where the calm words had come from.  I did not want to look at Amaka, did not want to see her scowl, did not want to prompt her to say something else to me, because I knew I could not keep up.  I thought I was imagining it when I heard the cackling, but then I looked at Amaka--and sure enough, she was laughing.
     "So your voice can be this loud, Kambili," she said.
     She showed me how to prepare the orah leaves.  The slippery, light green leaves had fibrous stalks that did not become tender from cooking and so had to be carefully plucked out.  I balanced the tray of vegetables on my lap and set to work, plucking the stalks and putting the leaves in a bowl at my feet.  I was done by the time Aunty Ifeoma drove in, about an hour later, and sank onto a stool, fanning herself with a newspaper.  Sweat streaks had washed away her pressed powder in parallel lines of darker-colored skin down the sides of her face.  Jaja and Obiora were bringing in the foodstuffs from the car, and Aunty Ifeoma asked Jaja to place the bunch of plantains on the verandah floor.
                                                                                       -Purple Hibiscus, page 170

I chose this page because it contains one of my favorite parts of the novel.  Aunty Ifeoma is a strong and defiant woman who is not afraid to stand up for what she believes in, and she has raised her children to be the same way.  Kambili, on the other hand, is afraid of her own shadow; she is scared to say anything at all, not wanting to overstep her boundaries or upset anyone, least of all her father.  So when Amaka makes fun of how "rich people do not prepare orah in their houses," it is the last straw for Aunty Ifeoma, and she yells at Kambili to stand up for herself, and for once, she kind of does.  This is a shining moment for not just Kambili but also Aunty Ifeoma, because she is finally able to get rid of some of the that Eugene put into his daughter and replace it with the freedom and pride that she wants her to have.  Above all, this is the tipping point for Kambili, where she begins to not just witness freedom and individuality, but also to embrace it.  I was so proud of Aunty Ifeoma for setting into motion Kambili's realization of this.
I love the fact that Adichie uses first-person voice to write this novel--it gives it a more personal feel, when you can see right in to a character's mind, and not feel so distant from the story.  It makes it easier to picture what is happening in my mind as well, and I can just see the emotions of all the characters: Amaka's vengeful sneer, Aunty Ifeoma's raging eyes, and Kambili's fearful reluctancy to do, well...anything.  I love writing that makes you feel what the characters feel and really empathize with them, because it makes me feel like I am a part of the story and like I know each and every one of the characters personally.  The details Adichie includes, like how "sweat streaks had washed away her pressed powder in parallel lines of darker-colored skin down the sides of [Aunty Ifeoma's] face," make it so much easier to be able to picture and analyze the characters, because not only do you know what they are saying, but how their actions make them appear gives incite into Aunty Ifeoma's weariness, or Amaka's ridiculing behavior, or Kambili's disquietude.
I can take a lot away from just one page of Adichie's writing.