Short Stories on Wednesday: The Thing around your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichi made an impactful debut with her maiden novel Purple Hibiscus. She won the 2005 Commonwealth Writer’s Prize for best first book. Then came the epic, Half of a Yellow Sun, set during the Biafran War. It won all sorts of accolades, including the Orange Prize for Fiction. Half of a Yellow Sun is one of my favourite works of contemporary literature and I was very impressed with Adichie’s narrative style (my review). So, when I spotted her latest book of short stories, The Thing Around Your Neck, at my local library, I snapped it up. I had hoped to finish the book by now and pick my favourite stories to write about, but life intervened and I’ve only managed to read the first two stories so far. But if these are anything to go by, I’m looking forward to reading the rest of the book.

Cell One.

Nnamabia is the wayward son of fairly wealthy family. Things have been getting progressively worse, with him even robbing his own mother’s jewellery for a couple of night’s worth of fun. It’s a dangerous time for the once-serene, university town of Nsukka. Cults and brutal daylight murders have become commonplace. One day, Nnamabia is arrested on suspicion of belonging to a cult. He protests his innocence, but is otherwise not unduly concerned about his predicament. His father’s position and money ensures that he doesn’t have to eat the terrible prison food, his cell mates seem to like him and the whole situation seems to have a certain glamour and drama to it which appeals to the cocky young boy. The only thing he’s really scared of is the dreaded cell one. Terrible things happen to an inmate unlucky enough to be dumped there and the prison authorities constantly use cell one as a threat to keep the inmates in check.

I liked this story. Mostly because the character of Nnamabia is pretty well drawn. You find yourself exasperated with him and concerned for him in equal bits. It’s a fairly straightforward tale and Adichie resists the temptation to push it over the edge and make a proper blood-curdler of it. This story was first published in the New Yorker so luckily it is available online here.

Imitation.

Nkem is the wife of a wealthy businessman and art collector. For the past several years her husband has been spending most of his time in Nigeria, visiting Nkem and the children in America for just a couple of months in the year. Nkem has gotten used to life in America and to the loneliness that is her constant companion. When the story begins, she has just heard that her husband has a girlfriend in Nigeria and they have moved in together. Memories, insecurities and desires come flooding back to her. In an attempt to imitate her husband’s mistress, Nkem hacks off all her hair. This imitation is echoed in all the ‘imitation’ artefacts that her husband collects. Nnkem loves those artefacts and their histories, even though she knows they are not the real deal. Finally, it is time for her husband to visit them again but Nkem cannot decide what to do or how to react to him.

Unlike Nnamabia from Cell One, Nkem feels like a more standard-issue character. It is difficult to sympathise with her or even like her very much though you are very obviously supposed to. This is largely because she doesn’t really let you into her head at any point and although you are told what she is thinking, you never really get a sense of what she is feeling. There are other things to like about the story though. It is well written and insightful, especially when it talks of the immigrant experience. Though Imitation is a good story, it stops just short of being great.

Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

        Last week we had a discussion on the Literary Blog Hop about socio-political agenda in books. I think most of us agreed that as long as the agenda did not take us away from the story it was acceptable and sometimes even desirable.  In Half of a Yellow Sun the politics is the story.  Adichie doesn’t shy away from taking sides (The title refers to the emblem on the Biafran flag) but she still somehow manages to keep prejudice away.

         Half of a Yellow Sun is narrated from four different perspectives. First there is Ugwu, an adolescent houseboy   with no political views whatsoever. Then there is Olanna, a beautiful and educated woman from a privileged background that she leaves behind. There is also Richard, a British expatriate in Nigeria who is desperate to belong. The fourth perspective is actually a book within the book, hauntingly titled The World Was Silent When We Died.

       The story begins on an endearing note with an innocent Ugwu arriving from a tiny village to the university town of Nsukka to work as a houseboy. He is awed and amazed at everything he sees, especially his Master. The Master (Odenigbo) is in love with Olanna who moves in with him to the chagrin of her wealthy and self absorbed parents. Richard is an aspiring writer who falls in love with Olanna’s twin Kainene.  There is hurt and betrayal, loyalty and immense love. And then the Biafran war rips their lives apart.

War forces these people out of their homes and throws them into a world that gets more hellish by the day.  All concepts of good and bad, strength and weakness are turned on their head. Adichie does not turn this into a war commentary or a history lesson. She never resorts to the rhetoric that most war novels are burdened with. The story stays focused on these characters while their lives, ideologies and personalities change and sometimes come unstuck.

        This was not an easy book to read.  The mellow start does not prepare you for the unrelenting brutality that follows. Parts of the book are absolutely harrowing and you wonder why you’re doing this to yourself.  But you care for these people, you mourn for them and you can feel their helplessness, their terror, their shame and their rage.

“Were you silent when we died?”

Did you see photos in sixty eight

Of children with their hair becoming rust:

Sickly patches nestled on those small heads

Then falling off, like rotten leaves on dust?

Imagine children with arms like toothpicks,

With footballs for bellies and skin stretched thin.

It was Kwashiorkor- difficult word.

A word that was not quite ugly enough, a sin.

You needn’t imagine. There were photos

Displayed in gloss-filled pages of your Life.

Did you see? Did you feel sorry briefly,

Then turn around to hold your lover or wife?