Book Review: Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

At a high-school party in the wealthiest neighborhood in Lagos, Nigeria, Obinze was supposed to ask Ginika to dance. Obinze was “the new boy” and Ginika was the “Prettiest Girl in their form,” and so the two were meant to be together. As the narrator tells us, “The gods, the hovering deities who gave and took teenage loves, had decided that Obinze would go out with Ginika.”

But Obinze did not do what he was supposed to do. Instead, he fell for Ifemelu, Ginika’s best friend. “His eyes met Ifemelu’s and held, and lingered.” Meanwhile, Ifemelu “realized, quite suddenly, that she wanted to breathe the same air as Obinze.” Obinze asked Ifemelu to dance, and soon they were discussing their favorite books, and soon after that they had fallen in love.

So begins the love story at the heart of Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s third novel and the most challenging book I’ve read this year. More on that later. For now, back to the story.

In the beginning, Ifemelu and Obinze’s relationship is effortless and full of playful, witty exchanges. They’re always teasing and testing each other, even on the night they meet:

“But now I’m happy [we moved to] Lagos or I would not have met you.”

“Or met Ginika,” she teased.

“Stop it.”

“Your guys will kill you. You’re supposed to be chasing her.”

“I’m chasing you.”

Their love grows more special by the day, but when high school ends the bubble around them pops. Unrest in the government leads to unpaid college professors, which leads to strikes. An opportunity for Ifemelu to finish her studies in America presents itself and she takes it. The couple form a plan for their eventual life together and Ifemelu departs for Philadelphia alone.

She arrives to discover that America isn’t the promised land that everyone back home made it out to be. “‘It’s wonderful but it’s not heaven’” is her initial impression, and things go downhill from there. She struggles to land an entry-level job despite having three years of university under her belt. A restaurant tells her that they’ve decided to hire “‘a more qualified person’” for their hostess position. A babysitting job goes to another applicant without explanation. Reading between the lines, Ifemelu realizes she’s being hamstrung by her skin color, something she never had to deal with back in Nigeria. As she explains to someone at a dinner party,

“I came from a country where race was not an issue; I did not think of myself as black and I only became black when I came to America.”

As Ifemelu struggles to find a job, the bills pile up and her sense of self wanes. Overwhelmed, she loses the thread of her relationship with Obinze and becomes acutely aware of the ugliness of racism in America. Unable or unwilling to keep quiet about her experiences, she begins to vent her frustration into an anonymous blog. She calls her blog “Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black.”

In “Raceteenth,” Ifemelu’s tone is direct, opinionated, and fierce. She writes with the power of emotion but doesn’t write emotionally. Here’s a snippet from one of her entries; it’s titled, “To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby”:

Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I’m Jamaican or I’m Ghanaian. America doesn’t care. So what if you weren’t “black” in your country? You’re in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up. And admit it — you say “I’m not black” only because you know black is at the bottom of America’s race ladder. And you want none of that. Don’t deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say “Don’t call me black, I’m from Trinidad?” I didn’t think so. So you’re black, baby.

“Raceteenth” is much more than a list of “Various Observations.” It’s a ledger of complaints, a map of race relations in America, and even a list of commandments. Ifemelu has a way of mocking the status quo while underscoring the importance of respecting it. Here’s an example of this pattern, taken from the blog post quoted above:

You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod. It is a way for black people to say, “You are not alone, I am here too.”

Here’s another:

If you are in an Ivy League college and a Young Republican tells you that you only got in because of Affirmative Action, do not whip out your perfect grades from high school. Instead, gently point out that the biggest beneficiaries of Affirmative Action are white women.

Ifemelu’s advice extends to white people as well. One blog post, titled “Friendly Tips for the American Non-Black: How to React to an American Black Talking About Blackness,” comprises three pages of rules for how white people should talk about race, which I’ve shortened below:

Dear American Non-Black, if an American Black person is telling you about an experience about being black, please do not eagerly bring up examples from your own life. Don’t say “It’s just like when I …” You have suffered. Everyone in the world has suffered. But you have not suffered precisely because you are an American Black. Don’t be quick to find alternative explanations for what happened. Don’t say, “Oh, it’s not really race, it’s class. Oh it’s not race, it’s gender. Oh, it’s not race, it’s the cookie monster.” You see, American Blacks don’t WANT it to be race. They would rather not have racist shit happen. So maybe when they say something is about race, it’s maybe because it actually is? […] Don’t preface your response with “One of my best friends is black” because it makes no difference and nobody cares and you can have a black best friend and still do racist shit and it’s probably not true anyway, the “best” part not the “friend” part. […] Don’t say it’s just like antisemitism. It’s not. In the hatred of Jews, there is also the possibility of envy — they are so clever, these Jews, they control everything, these Jews — and one must concede that a certain respect, however grudging, accompanies envy. In the hatred of American Blacks, there is no possibility of envy — they are so lazy, these blacks, they are so unintelligent, these blacks. […]

The effect of this sarcastic yet prescriptive, know-it-all tone is hard to pin down. Obviously, it affects different people differently. I can only speak to my own experience, and my own experience is this: I found Americanah to be an extremely challenging read.

I’d love to report that I found Ifemelu’s blog posts funny and enlightening and spot-on. I wish I could tell you that I enjoyed viewing America’s faults through the eyes of a smart female, Nigerian immigrant character named Ifemelu. I really do. But if I’m being honest, I have to say that, at the time of reading, I found Ifemelu’s blog unsettling and provocative, and that instead of enjoying it, I found myself becoming defensive. I found myself trying to poke holes in her arguments instead of listening, and becoming angry at the things she said.

This reaction of mine alarmed and disgusted me. I consider myself open-minded, so why did I close myself off from Ifemelu’s opinions? Fortunately, Americanah can be used as a guide for how to process this kind of entrenched closed-mindedness — if you’re willing to confront some ugly truths.

I found Ifemelu’s idea of a “race ladder” to be a useful metaphor in framing my reaction. As a white person, I’m near the top of the race ladder. (Not at the top but near it; the top spot is reserved for WASPs, according to her.) As a black person, Ifemelu is, in her words, at the “bottom.” The race ladder isn’t the only one at work here. Similar ladders exist for gender, citizenship, and economic status, and with each ladder I happen to be at the top, while Ifemelu happens to be at the bottom.

Due to the power and privilege these ladders confer to those at the top, the natural tendency of a ladder is to remain unbalanced. Balancing a ladder is slow work because it generally requires that those at the top make concessions to those below them. Moreover, there is no reward for helping to balance or dismantle a ladder, because ladders shouldn’t have been built in the first place. As Ifemelu writes in her blog, “Racism should never have happened and so you don’t get a cookie for reducing it.” It is therefore reasonable — though, in my view, unethical — for someone at the top to ignore the needs of those at the bottom. This helps explain why my first reaction to Ifemelu’s blog would be to close myself off instead of to listen.

I can therefore understand why Ifemelu’s blog entry quoted above, the one addressed to the “American Non-Black,” would provoke such a negative reaction from someone like me. Ifemelu deliberately upsets the power dynamic of the race ladder by making demands to those of us at the top. She issues us a set of rules that would limit our freedom and reduce our power. In return for our obedience, we would receive nothing. Viewed this way, Ifemelu’s proposed set of rules is a loser’s deal.

How, then, can progress be made? More personally, how can I learn to view this deal as one worth taking and not something to be avoided? Ifemelu provides an answer for that, too, although one that’s not easy to stomach:

So after this listing of don’ts, what’s the do? I’m not sure. Try listening, maybe. Hear what is being said. And remember that it’s not about you. American Blacks are not telling you that you are to blame. They are just telling you what is.

Take it from me: white men are not accustomed to hearing “it’s not about you.” This comment can be incendiary, especially coming from someone lower down on the ladder.

But it can also be liberating. If we at the top take her advice and simply listen, we will realize that Ifemelu is not pointing her finger at us. She’s pointing her finger at the situation and asking us to notice what’s going on.

For me, this is where the light went on. It’s when I stopped reading her story as a critic and instead started reading it for the sake of understanding. These few short sentences helped me transition from feeling like a defendant to feeling like a reader. And that’s all I wanted to be in the first place.

So, as a reader, did I like this book?

I liked many aspects of it. I liked how Ifemelu and Obinze’s story began and how it ended. Adichie writes about love with an astonishing ease, despite the complexity of Ifemelu and Obinze’s situation. She formidably navigates their relationship as it unfolds over two decades and across three continents. Ifemelu and Obinze lose track of each other from time to time, but the reader never does.

I liked how Adichie brought Ifemelu to life through her blog, and how she made her a believable character. Ifemelu is brilliantly observant to the point of being overly critical. She judges everyone but herself. Her expectations are impossibly high and she doesn’t meet people in the middle. These merits and flaws combine to make her a remarkably round protagonist.

I didn’t like how Adichie structured her novel, however. Americanah calls itself a love story, but it’s nearly 600 pages long and the middle 400 pages have very little to do with Ifemelu and Obinze’s relationship. If we’re being honest, Americanah is actually a novel about race in America, and love is the bread it’s served on. I think this cheapens the book, especially because the love story, while beautiful, has some issues. For example, I believe that Ifemelu and Obinze’s relationship falls apart unnaturally quickly, and in a manner completely uncharacteristic of who they are. I’d argue that the couple drifts apart mostly because it’s convenient for the narrative. It allows Adichie to introduce interesting new boyfriends — “The Hot White Ex” and “Professor Hunk,” as Ifemelu refers to them in her blog —who help expose a different, more private side of what it means to be black in America. Ifemelu and Obinze’s breakup creates space in the story and provides for a strong ending. But it doesn’t seem realistic.

These gripes are peanuts compared to what I loved about the novel: its force and its honesty. It made me angry but it also gave me the tools to unpack my anger and let it go. Americanah is an important book because it has the power to change your perspective, but only if you allow it to do so. It took me a long time to stop reacting and start listening. And while I’m ashamed to have reacted the way I did, I’m grateful that I was able to follow Ifemelu’s advice and listen, for it has helped me make a little progress.

Reflecting on my reading experience, I know that my voice — the voice of a white, upper-class man — isn’t the one that Adichie hopes to amplify, but I believe it would undermine the purpose of this novel to discuss it in a vacuum. I hope my experience will make you want to read Americanah, and I hope it will help you enjoy this wonderful book more readily than I did.