Americanah (74 page)
At first she played “Yori Yori” and “Obi Mu O” endlessly and then she stopped, because the songs brought to her memories a finality, as though they were dirges. She was wounded by the halfheartedness in his texting and calling, the limpness of his efforts. He loved her, she knew, but he lacked a certain strength; his backbone was softened by duty. When she put up the post, written after a visit to Ranyinudo’s
office, about the government’s demolishing of hawkers’ shacks, an anonymous commenter wrote,
This is like poetry
. And she knew it was him. She just knew.
It is morning. A truck, a government truck, stops near the tall office building, beside the hawkers’ shacks, and men spill out, men hitting and destroying and leveling and trampling. They destroy the shacks, reduce them to flat pieces of wood. They are doing their job, wearing “demolish” like crisp business suits. They themselves eat in shacks like these, and if all the shacks like these disappeared in Lagos, they will go lunchless, unable to afford anything else. But they are smashing, trampling, hitting. One of them slaps a woman, because she does not grab her pot and her wares and run. She stands there and tries to talk to them. Later, her face is burning from the slap as she watches her biscuits buried in dust. Her eyes trace a line towards the bleak sky. She does not know yet what she will do but she will do something, she will regroup and recoup and go somewhere else and sell her beans and rice and spaghetti cooked to a near mush, her Coke and sweets and biscuits.
It is evening. Outside the tall office building, daylight is fading and the staff buses are waiting. Women walk up to them, wearing flat slippers and telling slow stories of no consequence. Their high-heeled shoes are in their bags. From one woman’s unzipped bag, a heel sticks out like a dull dagger. The men walk more quickly to the buses. They walk under a cluster of trees which, only hours ago, housed the livelihoods of food hawkers. There, drivers and messengers bought their lunch. But now the shacks are gone. They are erased, and nothing is left, not a stray biscuit wrapper, not a bottle that once held water, nothing to suggest that they were once there.
Ranyinudo urged her, often, to go out more, to date. “Obinze always felt a little too cool with himself anyway,” Ranyinudo said, and although Ifemelu knew Ranyinudo was only trying to make her feel better, it still startled her, that everyone else did not think Obinze as near-perfect as she did.
She wrote her blog posts wondering what he would make of them. She wrote of a fashion show she had attended, how the model had twirled around in an ankara skirt, a vibrant swish of blues and greens,
looking like a haughty butterfly. She wrote of the woman at the street corner in Victoria Island who joyously said, “Fine Aunty!” when Ifemelu stopped to buy apples and oranges. She wrote about the views from her bedroom window: a white egret drooped on the compound wall, exhausted from heat; the gateman helping a hawker raise her tray to her head, an act so full of grace that she stood watching long after the hawker had walked away. She wrote about the announcers on radio stations, with their accents so fake and so funny. She wrote about the tendency of Nigerian women to give advice, sincere advice dense with sanctimony. She wrote about the waterlogged neighborhood crammed with zinc houses, their roofs like squashed hats, and of the young women who lived there, fashionable and savvy in tight jeans, their lives speckled stubbornly with hope: they wanted to open hair salons, to go to university. They believed their turn would come.
We are just one step away from this life in a slum, all of us who live air-conditioned middle-class lives
, she wrote, and wondered if Obinze would agree. The pain of his absence did not decrease with time; it seemed instead to sink in deeper each day, to rouse in her even clearer memories. Still, she was at peace: to be home, to be writing her blog, to have discovered Lagos again. She had, finally, spun herself fully into being.
SHE WAS
reaching back to her past. She called Blaine to say hello, to tell him she had always thought he was too good, too pure, for her, and he was stilted over the phone, as though resentful of her call, but at the end he said, “I’m glad you called.” She called Curt and he sounded upbeat, thrilled to hear from her, and she imagined getting back together, being in a relationship free of depth and pain.
“Was it you, those large amounts of money I used to get for the blog?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and she wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. “So you still blogging?”
“Yes.”
“About race?”
“No, just about life. Race doesn’t really work here. I feel like I got off the plane in Lagos and stopped being black.”
“I bet.”
She had forgotten how very American he sounded.
“It’s not been the same with anybody else,” he said. She liked hearing that. He called her late at night, Nigerian time, and they talked about what they used to do together. The memories seemed burnished now. He made vague references to visiting her in Lagos and she made vague sounds of assent.
One evening, while she was walking into Terra Kulture to see a play with Ranyinudo and Zemaye, she ran into Fred. They all sat in the restaurant afterwards, drinking smoothies.
“Nice guy,” Ranyinudo whispered to Ifemelu.
At first Fred talked, as before, about music and art, his spirit knotted up with the need to impress.
“I’d like to know what you’re like when you’re not performing,” Ifemelu said.
He laughed. “If you go out with me you’ll know.”
There was a silence, Ranyinudo and Zemaye looking at Ifemelu expectantly, and it amused her.
“I’ll go out with you,” she said.
He took her to a nightclub, and when she said she was bored by the too-loud music and the smoke and the barely clothed bodies of strangers too close to hers, he told her sheepishly that he, too, disliked nightclubs; he had assumed she liked them. They watched films together in her flat, and then in his house in Oniru, where arch paintings hung on his wall. It surprised her that they liked the same films. His cook, an elegant man from Cotonou, made a groundnut stew that she loved. Fred played the guitar for her, and sang, his voice husky, and told her how his dream was to be a lead singer in a folksy band. He was attractive, the kind of attractiveness that grew on you. She liked him. He reached out often to push his glasses up, a small push with his finger, and she thought this endearing. As they lay naked on her bed, all pleasant and all warm, she wished it were different. If only she could feel what she wanted to feel.
AND THEN
, on a languorous Sunday evening, seven months since she had last seen him, there Obinze was, at the door of her flat. She stared at him.
“Ifem,” he said.
It was such a surprise to see him, his shaved-bald head and the beautiful gentleness of his face. His eyes were urgent, intense, and she could see the up-down chest movement of his heavy breathing. He was holding a long sheet of paper dense with writing. “I’ve written this for you. It’s what I would like to know if I were you. Where my mind has been. I’ve written everything.”
He was holding out the paper, his chest still heaving, and she stood there not reaching out for the paper.
“I know we could accept the things we can’t be for each other, and even turn it into the poetic tragedy of our lives. Or we could act. I want to act. I want this to happen. Kosi is a good woman and my marriage was a kind of floating-along contentment, but I should never have married her. I always knew that something was missing. I want to raise Buchi, I want to see her every day. But I’ve been pretending all these months and one day she’ll be old enough to know I’m pretending. I moved out of the house today. I’ll stay in my flat in Parkview for now and I hope to see Buchi every day if I can. I know it’s taken me too long and I know you’re moving on and I completely understand if you are ambivalent and need time.”
He paused, shifted. “Ifem, I’m chasing you. I’m going to chase you until you give this a chance.”
For a long time she stared at him. He was saying what she wanted to hear and yet she stared at him.
“Ceiling,” she said, finally. “Come in.”
My deep gratitude to my family, who read drafts, told me stories, said
“jisie ike”
just when I needed to hear it, honored my need for space and time, and never wavered in that strange and beautiful faith born of love: James and Grace Adichie, Ivara Esege, Ijeoma Maduka, Uche Sonny-Eduputa, Chuks Adichie, Obi Maduka, Sonny Eduputa, Tinuke Adichie, Kene Adichie, Okey Adichie, Nneka Adichie Okeke, Oge Ikemelu, and Uju Egonu.
Three lovely people gave so much of their time and wisdom to this book: Ike Anya,
oyi di ka nwanne;
Louis Edozien; and Chinakueze Onyemelukwe.
For their intelligence and their remarkable generosity in reading the manuscript, sometimes more than once, and letting me see my characters through their eyes, and telling me what worked and what didn’t, I am grateful to these dear friends: Aslak Sira Myhre, Binyavanga Wainaina, Chioma Okolie, Dave Eggers, Muhtar Bakare, Rachel Silver, Ifeacho Nwokolo, Kym Nwosu, Colum McCann, Funmi Iyanda, Martin Kenyon (beloved pedant), Ada Echetebu, Thandie Newton, Simi Dosekun, Jason Cowley, Chinazo Anya, Simon Watson, and Dwayne Betts.
My thanks to my editor Robin Desser at Knopf; to Nicholas Pearson, Minna Fry, and Michelle Kane at Fourth Estate; to the Wylie Agency staff, especially Charles Buchan, Jackie Ko, and Emma Paterson; to Sarah Chalfant, friend and agent, for that ongoing feeling of safety; and to the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard, for the small office filled with light.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie grew up in Nigeria. Her work has been translated into thirty languages and has appeared in various publications, including
The New Yorker, Granta, The O. Henry Prize Stories
, the
Financial Times
, and
Zoetrope: All-Story
. She is the author of the novels
Purple Hibiscus
, which won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and
Half of a Yellow Sun
, which won the Orange Prize and was a National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist, a
New York Times
Notable Book, and a
People
and
Black Issues Book Review
Best Book of the Year; and, most recently, the story collection
The Thing Around Your Neck
. A recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, she divides her time between the United States and Nigeria.
ALSO BY CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE
The Thing Around Your Neck
Half of a Yellow Sun
Purple Hibiscus