Purple Hibiscus

Every Sunday before lunch, in between telling Sisi to put a little more palm oil in soup, a little less curry in the coconut rice, and while Papa took his siesta, Mama plaited my hair. She would sit in an armchair near the kitchen door and I on the floor with my head cradled between her thighs. Although the kitchen was airy, with the windows always open, my hair would still manage to absorb the spices, and afterward, when I brought the end of a braid to my nose, I would smell egusi soup, utazi, curry.

Extract from Chapter 1, Purple Hibiscus

I read Purple Hibiscus by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie a few weeks ago in three days flat, and was left in a state of entrancement and shock at the end. Told in the first person by a teenage girl growing up in Nigeria at the end of the 20th century, it is the story on the one hand of a young girl moving into adolescence and of a family torn apart by personal and cultural pressures; but equally it reflects the turbulence of political life in Nigeria at that time. It is an extraordinary first novel.

It broadened my horizons and touched me deeply. Have a look at the online reviews at the title link above - which include several by Nigerian readers - then read the book.