Why Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and why Americanah? 3. .. was awarded the National Book Critics Circle Award in March, , and shortlisted for the. Pur c ha s eac opyo f AMERI CANAH byChi mamandaNgoz iAdi chi e a toneo ft he s er e t a i l e r s. indd iii 3/15/13 tvnovellas.infoanah Chimamanda Ngozi. Read "Americanah" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie available from Rakuten Kobo . Sign up Pachinko (National Book Award Finalist) ebook by Min Jin Lee.
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Jacket design by Abby Weintraub v This book is for our next generation, ndi na-abia n' iru: Toks, Chisom, Amaka, Chinedum, Kamsiyonna, and Arinze. To my . Americanah / Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche. As teenagers in a Lagos .. The Eye of Minds is the first book in The Mortality Doctrine series set in a world of. americanah by chimamanda ngozi adichie pdf download. any Christian who wants to increase his/her belief in God Almighty, this book is a must read for you.
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She struggles with outdated Nigerian attitudes towards women. Ifemelu's Mother and Father- Ifemelu's mother is a devout evangelical Christian who fasts dangerously in order to drive the Devil out of her family's life. Ifemelu's father is powerless to stop her. He unexpectedly loses his job at a federal agency and is unable to support his family. Aunty Uju - Ifemelu's cousin who acts as Ifemelu's older sister.
She starts a relationship with the General, which leads to the birth of Dike. After the General passes, Uju moves to America, where she struggles to continues the medical training she began in Nigeria.
After passing her exams, she moves to Massachusetts and marries an accountant from Nigeria. Unhappy with her life, she leaves the accountant, and moves to a different neighbor, continuing to raise Dike by herself.
Dike - Dike is Aunty Uju and the General's son. After the General passes, he moves with his mother to the United States. He lives first in New York, then Massachusetts. His suicide attempt devastates his family and underlines the difficulty immigrant families face when trying to integrate into American society.
Curt - Ifemelu's first American boyfriend. Curt is extremely wealthy and uses his family's business connections to secure Ifemelu a job interview in an effort to impress her, and to persuade her to move to Baltimore so he can see her more often. Curt is kind and supportive but ultimately unfulfilling for Ifemelu. Blaine - Ifemelu's second American boyfriend, an assistant professor at Yale who writes a blog about race and popular culture.
Ifemelu moves to New Haven to live with him. His rigidness creates problems in his relationship with Ifemelu. Shan- Blaine's sister. She is a writer who is often critical of others. Kosi - Obinze's wife and the mother of his child. Buchi- Obinze and Kosi's daughter. Themes[ edit ] This section possibly contains original research. Please improve it by verifying the claims made and adding inline citations.
Statements consisting only of original research should be removed. January This section does not cite any sources. Please help improve this section by adding citations to reliable sources. Unsourced material may be challenged and removed.
January Americanization[ edit ] Americanization is one of the biggest themes in Americanah. In the context of the novel, America itself is a symbol of hope, wealth, social and economic mobility, and, ultimately, disappointment, as Ifemelu learns that the American Dream is a lie and that the advantages she enjoys there often come at a great price. Her Americanization is slow but distinct, and she gradually picks up the slang, adapts to her surroundings for better or worse , and adopts American politics.
Her views on gender and race change because of this, and her blog is devoted to exploring the issue of race as a non-American black in America. She's called Americanah when she returns to Nigeria, having picked up a blunt, American way of speaking and of addressing problems. During her rst year in America, when she took New Jersey Transit to Penn Station and then the subway to visit Aunty Uju in Flatlands, she was struck by how mostly slim white people got o at the stops in Manhattan and, as the train went further into Brooklyn, the people left were mostly black and fat.
She glanced at him, surprised, mildly o ended, and thought it a perfect blog post, how this stranger had decided she was fat. She was fat. She was not curvy or big-boned; she was fat, it was the only word that felt true. And she had ignored, too, the cement in her soul.
It had been there for a while, an early morning disease of fatigue, a bleakness and borderlessness. It brought with it amorphous longings, shapeless desires, brief imaginary glints of other lives she could be living, that over the months melded into a piercing homesickness.
She scoured Nigerian websites, Nigerian pro les on Facebook, Nigerian blogs, and each click brought yet another story of a young person who had recently moved back home, clothed in American or British degrees, to start an investment company, a music production business, a fashion label, a magazine, a fast-food franchise.
She looked at photographs of these men and women and felt the dull ache of loss, as though they had prised open her hand and taken something of hers. They were living her life. Nigeria became where she was supposed to be, the only place she could sink her roots in without the constant urge to tug them out and shake o the soil.
And, of course, there was also Obinze. Her rst love, her rst lover, the only person with whom she had never felt the need to explain herself. He was now a husband and father, and they had not been in touch in years, yet she could not pretend that he was not a part of her homesickness, or that she did not often think of him, sifting through their past, looking for portents of what she could not name.
The rude stranger in the supermarket—who knew what problems he was wrestling with, haggard and thin-lipped as he was—had intended to o end her but had instead prodded her awake. She began to plan and to dream, to apply for jobs in Lagos. She did not tell Blaine at rst, because she wanted to nish her fellowship at Princeton, and then after her fellowship ended, she did not tell him because she wanted to give herself time to be sure. But as the weeks passed, she knew she would never be sure.
There they were, in his living room in New Haven, awash in soft jazz and daylight, and she looked at him, her good, bewildered man, and felt the day take on a sad, epic quality. But they had survived that ght, mostly because of Barack Obama, bonding anew over their shared passion. And now here she was telling him it was over.
He taught ideas of nuance and complexity in his classes and yet he was asking her for a single reason, the cause. But she had not had a bold epiphany and there was no cause; it was simply that layer after layer of discontent had settled in her, and formed a mass that now propelled her.
She did not tell him this, because it would hurt him to know she had felt that way for a while, that her relationship with him was like being content in a house but always sitting by the window and looking out.
He looked defeated, standing slump-shouldered in the kitchen. It was his houseplant, hopeful green leaves rising from three bamboo stems, and when she took it, a sudden crushing loneliness lanced through her and stayed with her for weeks. Sometimes, she still felt it. How was it possible to miss something you no longer wanted?
Blaine needed what she was unable to give and she needed what he was unable to give, and she grieved this, the loss of what could have been.
So here she was, on a day lled with the opulence of summer, about to braid her hair for the journey home. Sticky heat sat on her skin.
There were people thrice her size on the Trenton platform and she looked admiringly at one of them, a woman in a very short skirt. Her decision to move back was similar; whenever she felt besieged by doubts, she would think of herself as standing valiantly alone, as almost heroic, so as to squash her uncertainty.
The fat woman was co-coordinating a group of teenagers who looked sixteen and seventeen years old. They crowded around, a summer program advertised on the front and back of their yellow T-shirts, laughing and talking.
They reminded Ifemelu of her cousin Dike. One of the boys, dark and tall, with the leanly muscled build of an athlete, looked just like Dike. Not that Dike would ever wear those shoes that looked like espadrilles.
Weak kicks, he would call them. It was a new one; he rst used it a few days ago when he told her about going shopping with Aunty Uju.
Nigerian taxi drivers in America were all convinced that they really were not taxi drivers. She was next in line. Her taxi driver was black and middleaged. Mervin Smith.
Not Nigerian, but you could never be too sure. Nigerians took on all sorts of names here. Even she had once been somebody else. She could tell right away, with relief, that his accent was Caribbean. Thank you. Or a toddler asleep on a wrapper spread over a battered sofa. Sometimes, older children stopped by.
The conversations were loud and swift, in French or Wolof or Malinke, and when they spoke English to customers, it was broken, curious, as though they had not quite eased into the language itself before taking on a slangy Americanism. Words came out half-completed. He talked, as he drove, about how hot it was, how rolling blackouts were sure to come.