This quote is from the book I’m reading currently, Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and its a conversation between the narrator and her brother.
Did you tell Aunty Ifeoma about your finger?’ I asked. I should not have asked. I should have let it be. But there, it was out. It was only when I was alone with Jaja that the bubbles in my throat let my words come out. “She asked me, and I told her.” He was tapping his foot on the verandah floor in an energetic rhythm. I stared at my hands, at the short nails that Papa used to cut to a chaffing shortness, when I would sit between his legs and his cheeks would brush mine gently, until I was old enough to do it myself — and I always cut them to a chaffing shortness, too. Had Jaja forgotten that we never told, that there was so much that we never told? When people asked, he always said his finger was “something” that had happened at home. That way, it was not a lie and it let them imagine some accident, perhaps involving a heavy door. I wanted to ask Jaja why he had told Aunty Ifeoma, but I knew there was no need to, that this was one question he did not know the answer to. (p. 154)
This quote captures the weight of unspoken family secrets and the struggle between silence. The narrator’s internal conflict about confronting her brother, Jaja, regarding the revelation of a hidden family secret to Aunty Ifeoma reflects the tension between preserving appearances and the desire for emotional honesty. Jaja’s responses to questions about his finger reveal a desire to maintain control over his narrative, while his decision to confide in Aunty Ifeoma hints at a subconscious longing for understanding and validation outside the confines of their oppressive household.