Houses symbolize the oppressive social and cultural norms in Adunni’s society. Each time Adunni moves to a new house—which always happens out of force or necessity rather than choice—there’s a new authority figure and a new set of norms she must adapt to. In Adunni’s childhood home, Papa has the final say, and so Adunni is subjected to the socially accepted practice of Papa selling her as a child bride. Then, when Adunni moves into her husband, Morufu’s, house, she must adjust to the rules he sets—which means serving him and enduring his abuse. Finally, when Adunni moves to Big Madam’s house, she faces an even more complex set of cultural norms. There is a class-based hierarchy in the house that intersects with gender inequality, as evidenced by the way Big Daddy tries to use Adunni’s status as an impoverished woman to manipulate her into a sexual relationship. Together, all of the houses Adunni lives in represent the various forms of gendered oppression she’s subjected to, and her inability to make her own decisions or pursue the life she wants.
Furthermore, the symbolism of houses contrasts with the freedom that the outdoors offers. Many of the best, most freeing events of Adunni’s life occur when she is outside: for instance, her first moment of freedom as Morufu’s bride occurs when Khadija gives her permission to walk to the river to see her friends. Later on, Adunni’s first English lesson with Ms. Tia—which is instrumental in inspiring Adunni to pursue her education and eventually escape from indentured servitude—takes place outside, under a palm tree. In contrast to the strict rules and violence that characterize the indoors, the outdoors represents freedom and empowerment.
Houses Quotes in The Girl with the Louding Voice
My wedding be like watching a movie inside the tee-vee. My eyes was watching myself as I was kneeling down in front of my father, as he was saying a prayer to be following me to my husband house, as my mouth was opening, my lips parting, my voice saying “Amen” to the prayers even though my mind was not understanding what is happening to me.
“Your dead mother and me, we are age-mates. God forbid for me to share my husband with my own child. God forbid that I am waiting for you to finish with my husband before I can enter his room. Ah, you will suffer in this house. Ask Khadija, she will tell you that I am a wicked woman. That my madness is not having cure.”
“When you begin to born your children, you will not be too sad again,” she say. “When I first marry Morufu, I didn’t want to born children. I was too afraid of having a baby so quick, afraid of falling sick from the load of it. So I take something, a medicine, to stop the pregnant from coming. But after two months, I say to myself, ‘Khadija, if you don’t born a baby, Morufu will send you back to your father’s house.’ So I stop the medicine and soon I born my first girl, Alafia. When I hold her in my hands for the first time, my heart was full of so much love. Now, my children make me laugh when I am not even thinking to laugh. Children are joy, Adunni. Real joy.”
When she come out, she draw deep breath and her chest, wide like blackboard, is climbing up and down, up and down. It is as if this woman is using her nostrils to be collecting all the heating from the outside and making us to be catching cold. I am standing beside Mr. Kola, and his body is shaking like my own. Even the trees in the compound, the yellow, pink, blue flowers in the long flowerpot, all of them too are shaking.
I am not understanding why Kofi is always saying Nigerians are spending this and that when him too, he is using the Nigerians money to be building his house in his Ghana country. I see when the visitors of Big Madam give him money, how he will squeeze it tight and slide it inside his pocket with a big smile and a big thank you. Why didn’t he refuse the money if it is thief money? He too is among the problem wrong with Nigeria.
I step inside, see about five girls sitting on the floor, their head down. They all look the same age of me: fourteen, fifteen. All are wearing dirty dress of ankara or plain material with shoes like wet toilet paper, tearing everywhere. Hair is rough, or low-cut to the scalp. They smell of stinking sweat, of a body that needs serious washing, and they all look sad, lost, afraid. Like me. […] One of the girls look up then, hook her eyes on me. There is no kindness in her eyes. Nothing. Only fear. Cold fear. She say nothing, but with her eyes, she seem to be saying: You are me. I am you. Our madams are different, but they are the same.
I leave the room, closing the door on the memory of the sad and the bitter and the happy of it all, knowing that even if everybody forgets about Rebecca, or about me, the wall in the room we shared will remind them that we were here. That we are human. Of value. Important.