Americanah
Chimamanda
Ngozi Adichie
I've
decided to make an effort to read more books by foreign writers,
particularly women, and it's been hard to ignore the positive praise
for Americanah. While
I agree that the accolades are absolutely well deserved, I've been
struggling to determine what, exactly, it is that makes this novel so
compelling. The book is, from the start, poignantly and articulately
observed as Adichie carefully straddles the line between beautiful
and effective prose; her sentences are often as insightful as they
are practical, but one never gets lost in the language at the expense
of the story. Even more remarkably, the novel's overt exploration of
race and identity, particularly as it is construed in the modern
United States and Great Britain, never feels out of place, even when
it becomes blatantly political. By voicing some of her most poignant
observations and strident criticisms of the West's treatment of race
through Nigerians Ifemelu and Obinze, Adichie grants them an added
sense of depth and increases their impact. Even Ifemelu's most
strongly worded blog posts, which unapologetically and directly
confront race and racism in the United States, are carefully wedded
to the plot. Illuminating and critical in equal measure, the novel
forces white readers to grapple with privilege and bias without
resorting to condescension or alienation. For the book's characters,
and thus its readers, race is simply there, an omnipresent facet of
life that cannot be ignored once they leave Nigeria.
Despite
its clearly politicized point of view, Americanah's
politics are a function of, rather than a reason for, its plot, and
Adichie is as critical of Nigeria as she is of the United States and
Great Britain. Her settings ring true and come to life, from Lagos to
London and Brooklyn to Baltimore. The novel is much more than its
political leanings, effectively delivering two vastly different
visions of the modern immigrant experience and relying, at heart, on
the fluctuating relationship between Ifemelu and Obinze as their
paths cross, diverge, and merge through time. Both Ifemelu and Obinze
are immediately convincing and familiar, though their actions are at
times a bit suspect, and the supporting cast is likewise strong.
Adichie effetively, but subtly, develops and utilizes her characters
and their locales, to the point where it becomes easy to forget that
the action is, indeed, taking place in a novel. Every aspect of the
book bursts into immediate, vivid life, often feeling more like an
all-encompassing experience than a deliberately constructed novel.
To
read Americanah as a
native-born, middle-class white American is to be transformed, to
experience life through a vastly different set of sympathetic eyes.
Adichie effortlessly conveys her characters' experiences without
resorting to gimmicks or hostility, relying instead on her immense
talent and keen eye for detail. All of the small details fall gently
into place, gradually building compelling portraits of these
fictional characters and the very real worlds they inhabit. The book
challenges readers' default points of view but does so with
remarkable subtlety, focusing on a shared human connection before
pointing out the ways we seek to alienate those we perceive as
different and obscure our shared humanity. Far from didactic, the
novel confidently navigates the modern world's peculiarities while
engaging readers with a plot that is true to its story and, in the
end, its message. This is a book that begs to be discussed and
dissected, a life-changing experience that slowly alters its readers'
perceptions simply by focusing on the human elements at its core. A
novel equally about coming of age, the immigrant experience, racism,
and true love, Americanah
offers a remarkably complete view of Nigerian nationals Ifemelu and
Obinze that is instantly accessible to white Americans despite- or
perhaps in part because of- its overt focus on racial identity.
Grade:
A
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