Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: An issues novel unashamedly open about its intentions

Adichie's observations are always sharp, intelligent, humorous and humane. They show a radically defamiliarised version of western society, seen through African eyes.

Americanah
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Fourth Estate, 400pp, £20

In the interests of full disclosure: I am wary – an acquired wariness; all tastes are acquired – of the novel as platform. Legitimately, editorials are platforms, opinion pieces are platforms, blogs are platforms. But fiction that announces its debate too loudly risks simplification. “Subtle”, “complex” and “nuanced” are almost always positive critical terms.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun (the 2006 Orange Prize winner) was subtle, complex and nuanced. The book dealt with the experiences of Igbo civilians during the Biafran war. It was a tense, high-wire walk of a novel that took in politics and history without forgetting the primacy of the personal. With Americanah, Adichie has chosen to loosen that tightrope – to step on to the more dangerous slackrope. The heroine, Ifemelu, and her first love, Obinze, grow up in modern-day Nigeria. During university strikes, Ifemelu decides to continue her studies in the US; after graduating, Obinze moves to Britain. Both are intelligent, educated and middle class: compelled to emigrate not by conflict or poverty but by “the oppressive lethargy of choicelessness”.

For many years Ifemelu and Obinze lose touch, and the bulk of the novel is dedicated to charting their experiences in the US and the UK. Ifemelu gets the most airtime. She eventually becomes a famous blogger writing “Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black” – a blog started after her enthusiastically received post on happilykinkynappy. com (devoted to natural African hair). “Posting on the website was like giving testimony in church; the echoing roar of approval revived her.” Her blog posts – many are included in the novel – have a deliberately preachy flavour, more parable than anecdote. Sample opening line: “So this guy said to Professor Hunk, ‘White privilege is nonsense. How can I be privileged?’”

Although the blog posts are clearly Ifemelu’s polemics, and although the narrative surrounding them is more (to use that word again) nuanced, the subject of the book is race. At times, it feels like an anthology of examples – an agglomeration rather than an arrangement. We have the under-representation of black women in fashion magazines, the white woman who indiscriminately calls black women “beautiful”, the black man who insults Ifemelu for her “jungle” look (ie, non-westernised hair), the absurdity of privileged westerners treasuring roughly finished ethnic tableware.

No issue is left uncovered. Everything is held to account. And Adichie’s observations are always sharp, intelligent, humorous and humane. They will challenge the way you think about race and show you a radically defamiliarised version of western society, as seen through African eyes.

An issues novel, then, that is unashamedly open about its intentions. Formally, Americanahis baggy. The story often feels like a vehicle for the discussion. There are wobbles, moments when the whole book risks losing its balance. Adichie is aware of the danger. For readers uncomfortable with the novel’s relentness focus, she includes what seems to be a small manifesto, or perhaps even a warning. Shan, an African-American writer, is annoyed when her white editor wants to change various anecdotes in her memoir.

“He says it’s not subtle. Like life is always fucking subtle,” Shan tells her friends. “He thinks we should complicate it, so it’s not race alone. And I say, but it was race . . . ‘Nuance’ means keep people comfortable so everyone is free to think of themselves as individuals and everyone got where they are because of their achievement.”

Adichie is a very skilful writer and her talent for illuminating the intricacies of human interactions carries her. Although I will continue to prefer the elegance displayed in Half of a Yellow Sun, this bold book is – among many other things – an important reminder of the privilege inherent in that preference.

Claire Lowdon is an assistant editor at Areté

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speaking from the pulpit at Westminster Abbey. Photograph: Getty Images.

This article first appeared in the 15 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The New Machiavelli

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Edinburgh in the time of Harry Potter - growing up in a city that became famous for a book

At first, JK Rowling was considered a local author done good, rather than fiction’s future megastar. 

In an Edinburgh playground, circa 1998, I found myself excluded from one of the world’s first Harry Potter cliques. My best friend Sophie had a copy of a book with a title which seemed indecipherable to me, but she insisted it was so good she couldn’t possibly let me read it. Instead, she and the other owner of a book huddled together in corners of our concrete, high-walled playground. I was not invited.

Exclusion worked. Somehow I procured a copy of this book, rather sceptically read the praise on the cover, and spent the next day avoiding all company in order to finish it. After my initiation into the small-but-growing clique, I read the second book, still in hardback.

Edinburgh at that time was something of a backwater. Although it still had the same atmospheric skyline, with the castle dominating the city, the Scottish Parliament was yet to open, and the Scottish banks were still hatching their global domination plans. The most famous author of the moment was Irvine Welsh, whose book Trainspotting chronicled a heroin epidemic.

In this city, JK Rowling was still considered to be a local author done good, rather than fiction’s future megastar. She gave talks in the Edinburgh Book Festival, a string of tents in the posh West End Charlotte Square. By the time I saw her (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, hardback edition, 1999), she had graduated from the tepee to the big tent reserved for authors like Jacqueline Wilson and Michael Rosen. At the end we queued up for the book signing, and she told me she liked my purple dungarees.

At that time, there were no films, and what the characters should look and sound like was a constant playground debate. Another member of the Harry Potter clique I spoke to, Sally*, remembers how excited she was that “she did the same voice for Hagrid that my mum did when she was reading it to me”.

About the same time, a rumour spread around school so incredible it took a while to establish it was true. JK Rowling was moving to the street where some of our Harry Potter clique lived. We started taking detours for the privilege of scurrying past the grand Victorian house on the corner, with its mail box and security keypad. The mail box in particular became a focus of our imagination. Sophie and I laboured away on a Harry Potter board game which – we fervently believed – would one day be ready to post.

Gradually, though, it was not just ten-year-olds peeping through the gate. The adults had read Harry Potter by now. Journalists were caught raking through the bins.

Sally recalls the change. “It was exciting [after she first moved in], but as it was just after the first book it wasn’t as much of a big deal as it soon became,” she recalls. “Then it just felt a little bizarre that people would go on tours to try and get a glimpse of her house.

“It just felt like an ordinary area of town with ordinary people and it made me realise the price that comes with fame.”

Edinburgh, too, began to change. As teenagers (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, 2003) we liked to gather at the Elephant House cafe, on the bohemian George IV Bridge. We knew it was one of the cafes JK Rowling had written in, but we also liked its round wooden tables, and its bagels, and the fact you got one of the hundreds of miniature elephants that decorated the café if your bagel was late. It became harder and harder to get a seat.

We scoffed at the tourists. Still, we were proud that Harry Potter had put our city on the map. “As I grew older, it was fun to think of her writing the books in local cafes and just being an ordinary person living in Edinburgh with a great imagination,” Sally says. As for me, it was my trump card during long summers spent with bored Canadian teenagers, who had not heard and did not care about anything else relating to my teenage life in Scotland.

The last in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, was published in July 2007, a month after I left high school. Not long after that, I left Edinburgh as well. The financial crash the following year stunned the city, and exiled graduates like me. I fell out the habit of reading fiction for fun. JK Rowling moved to a house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, ringed by 50 foot hedges. The Scottish independence referendum divided my friends and family. On Twitter, Rowling, firmly pro-union, was a target for cybernats.

Then, two years ago, I discovered there is another Harry Potter city – Porto. As in Edinburgh, medieval passageways wind past stacked old houses, and the sea is never far away. JK Rowling lived here between 1991 and 1993, during her short-lived marriage, and drafted the first three chapters of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. In the university district, students wear black, ragged gowns, and the fantastical wooden carvings of the Livraria Lello bookshop is tipped to be the inspiration for some of the aesthetic Rowling applies to the books.

I don’t know whether it did or not. But it made me realise that no city can possess an author, and not only because she could afford to any part of the globe at whim. Standing in the bookshop and watching the students drift by, I could imagine myself in some corner of the Harry Potter world. And simultaneously, perhaps, some tourists queueing for a table at the Elephant House were doing the same.

*Name has been changed

Now read the other articles included in the New Statesman’s Harry Potter Week.

Julia Rampen is the digital news editor of the New Statesman (previously editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog). She has also been deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines. 

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