So I Read Americanah

I have been a fan of Chimamanda Adichie since I read ' Purple Hibiscus' several years ago. I would buy every book she wrote after that, which were two actually; 'Half of A Yellow Sun' and  'The Thing Around Your Neck'. She almost lost my attention with the latter because I felt that it was a rushed compilation of half developed plots and characters. I hated it. So when I heard Americanah had been released, I anxiously looked forward to it, as her opportunity to redeem herself (in my eyes).

Unlike a lot of people, I was very excited at the size of the book; it meant there was more to enjoy.  I began initially to read it voraciously, but soon slowed my pace as I went further, when I realised there was a very desperate message forcibly and brusquely pushing its way out.

The character of Ifemelu in the early stages was one I could relate to, not only as a regular Nigerian girl growing up in the early nineties to the noughties, but also because she was the basic, standard, character for most of Adichie's works; a girl growing up around the influences of a university environment and traditional parents. I liked the twist with the over-religious Pentecostalist mother; it made for a good story. But from there also it seemed the story took on so many themes- too many in my opinion. From when she moved in with her Aunty Uju you could not tell if the story was set in the 80's or the 90's. You got the impression that Chimamanda was struggling to remember what growing up in Nigeria had been like. (I deliberately referred to Chimamanda's opinions because as you went on in the book it gave off the strong impression that the opinions of the protagonist were actually the opinions of the writer. Whether this is accurate or not  is a different matter.)

When Ifemelu arrived in America, it seemed she came with fledgling biases and an over-sensitivity that heightened with time. I will not pretend to understand the nuances of living as a black immigrant in a country of white people, but I do not think that anyone should go around so painfully aware of the differences between them and others, and so critical and analytical of everyone's actions and statements. To Ifemelu, EVERYTHING was racist, every conversation had racial undertones, every glance, every flick of the wrist, every move, every strand of hair. Her over-intellectual dinner table discussions could be justified by fellowship at Princeton, but we never once got the impression that she ever relaxed! Even when they had a spread of soul food, and we were expecting her to tuck in and enjoy, she had to spoil it by telling us that she ate tiny portions of everything as she hated soul food. As if trying to deliberately shake off the last vestiges of proof that all black people are similar, to prove the point. Of course the hair agenda also had to be pushed, fanning the volatile flames of  the on-going, spurious debate about the authenticity of your identity, if you have chemically treated hair.

I personally found the extracts from Ifemelu's blog droning and tiresome; making her a more one-sided character than I would imagine was intended. I began to wonder what her boyfriends saw in her. She seemed very anti-social and always on her guard against connotations of racism.And at other times she seemed like a very observant, but unhappy victim of life. I didn't really like her.

That said, I could identify with observing/ experiencing discrimination with that level of intensity. Years ago in Nigeria, as a woman, you were virtually invisible if you went to an event or a venue with a man. I had experienced being ignored when I arrived at dinner with a man, by the waiters, both male and female, or the door man, or the valet. When we arrived at a hotel, only the man's bags were almost always taken, because the assumption was that he paid the bills so he would tip. And never mind the fact that you were almost always mistaken for a prostitute, or a mistress, or the girlfriend if you were meeting a man somewhere. You could never be the business partner. And the more beautiful you were the worse it seemed. But that was several years ago. Women have risen to the top of many industries and professions now that one would be stupid to ignore them. So with that as an analogy, I wonder why Ifemelu - or Chimamanda- fails to acknowledge that things have also changed, even if slightly, for Black America.

When she came back to Nigeria, she followed the naturally predictable route of getting a job based on her new 'status' but the plot stopped being relatable to me when the Ifemelu quit her magazine job to start an intellectual blog, and Obinze left his wife for her. For a Nigerian well-absorbed in the system of Nigeria and exposed to affluence through questionable means, after years of yearning for financial stability, Obinze's actions seemed snatched from the streets of New York. And considering Obinze never lived in America, it definitely was  Chimamanda 'shining' through.