Dream Count: A review of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Novel.

As reviewed through the eyes of an unmarried, Igbo woman

You must have read quite a few reviews on this book. Which means you know the storyline is female-centred. So let me spare you. It is a book which kept me up for two consecutive nights, few books achieve that feat. 

Now come along, for this unconventional review through my lived experiences. I assure you, this is about the best review you would get so far.

I share a touchpoint with all four characters in this book. 

 

    • Kadiatou: West African who grew up in a Muslim-dominated North. Self-effacing. Single parent immigrant with a young child.

    • Unmarried Igbo woman with a well-paying career in her 40s like Chiamaka. Omelogor. Zikora. 

    • Zikora: A puritan single mother who can relate to the Kwame scenario.

    • Omelogor: a banking background including Treasury experience with access to the corridors of power. I saw how the money game is played in there. Her culture shock in America. Friendship in Abuja with Hauwa and the exclusive Northern world. + deep friendships 

    •  Chia: Travel writer. Idealistic romantic views and a naïve heart.

photo of blue neon signage

THE REVIEW:

 I will review it from the angle of topics the author covered.

Societal Pressure on Females: Chiamaka, Omelogor and Zikora are all well educated, travelled and successful females holding down their fortes. Although, through the lens of society and families, they fall short by being financially independent, unmarried Igbo females in their 40s.

That wife who sparks envy: Chia’s mom was an archetype of the privileged Anambra wife. Stunningly Beautiful. Moneyed & doting husband. Uppity. Stay home mom who simply ate her husband’s money. That woman who sparks envy from other women as due to no fault of hers, she is blessed with much. Yet people wanted humility from her to prove that no woman deserved so much. She was also that mother, who gradually descends from her exclusive list of the type of man you should marry, to encouraging you to settle for any available man.

Shifting Values: The family members who now encourage you to adopt, try IVF or have a child if marriage is not coming. Backtrack 10, 20 years ago and those same people would have blatantly rejected any such option. This shows that with time, our views evolve. Also, the things we think we stand for today, are mostly self-serving. 

Fragile Female Self-Esteem: You are lucky if you have not been in a relationship with a Darnell. The user who is intimidated by you yet he likes the idea of your status. And in retaliation he attempts to make himself feel better by diminishing you. Yet you stay, make excuses for him then try to protect him from your circles. We also see it play out in how Binta, Kadiatou’s sister, kept lying to protect her city boyfriend from Kadiatou’s prying questions. The burden of a societal expectation to downplay yourself for a man to shine.

Self-Sabotage: Darnell treats you like crap and you wish for better. Chuka treats you like a queen. Still, you dump Chuka for a myth. Who else can relate?

Intricacy of Female Friendships: the deep bonds, pettiness and insecurities of female friendships show up all through the book. 

Poverty & Widowhood: Kadiatou’s father’s death changed the trajectory of their lives for the worse. Her mother’s experience with in-laws and subsequently, Kadiatou herself when her husband died, are real experiences in African culture.

Culture Shock: Omelogor’s experience in America which led to depression. It depicts what happens, especially to the average middle-class Nigerian, used to certain comforts, who relocates to the West.

Polygamy: Zikora’s father taking a second wife because his wife could only birth Zikora, a daughter. In Igbo land, a man who dies without a son has no legacy.

The book touches sensitive topics like Female Genital Mutilation, Rape, Shades of Racism, Betrayal, Nepotism, Single Parenting, Genocides citing the Nigerian-Biafran war, Operation Parsley of the Haiti-Dominicans, the Kano riots, the Nazi SS refugees in Argentina.

Furthermore, the hypocrisy of the West was depicted in; the replay of the 2011 rape scandal involving the IMF chief, Dominique Strauss-Khan and Nafissatou Diallo, a hotel cleaner. In addition to Operation Persil — The 1960s French government covert operation in Guinea to arm twist Sekou Toure into submission. Also, in Amadou, the black immigrant jailed for selling drugs and thrown into a faraway jail in Virginia.

And yes, Kadiatou’s fonio — called Acha in Northern Nigeria — left my mouth watering.

Have you read it? Share what stuck with you.A photo of the book: Dream Count by Adichie.

Dear Father: what is the cost of your love?

prodigal son embraces his father

“My father called me” Khadijat blurted out as I picked her call

“Which father? I was confused

“Alhaji”

“Wow!” I returned “How did it go?”

“I did not pick” She said resignedly

“What do you mean you did not pick?”

“He is calling me because his beloved daughter is now a divorcee. And his golden son called his bluff and moved out”

“How do you know that is why he called though?”

“They told me before he did.  I knew when he requested for my number from my mom. He goes about showing off with me. I hear everyone calls him Baba Star. Seems the fact that I am an Influencer has erased the other fact of being an unmarried mother”

“But babe, why did you not pick his call?” I bit my tongue from further remonstrating

“Why would I? After Nine years? What if I had died when he threw me out? Have you forgotten what I went through? Sadeeq almost died or have you forgotten that night when you drove like a maniac to the hospital? You were driving, praying and telling me to stop crying. Do you know why I was even weeping that night?

“Tell me”

“You made me cry”

“Moi?”

 

“You came back from work on the Island. Tired and in bed before my scream roused you. Yet you threw your own son in the car and we set off that night. In the same city where I had a family. I kept looking at this stranger who had taken me into her house. A tired single mother who should be sleeping. I cannot forgive him”

“Khadijat, are we still on this forgiveness matter? If you can forgive the man who abandoned you with a child why not your own father? I have never understood her logic

“Jide is not my father. He is just a man. Has my sister’s husband not left? A man who courted her for six years and they were married for twelve years with four children? Men are men”

“So why not toss your father into the mix? forgive him, he is a man” I entreated

In the ensuing silence, my mind drifted to the biblical father of the Prodigals. A man who shamed society by breaking all conventions.

Imagine this scenario: your younger son comes to demand why you have refused to die? His goal is to tour the world and have fun on your account. A goal you keep thwarting by remaining alive. He cannot inherit until you pass away and since he wants to enjoy his life right now, can you please allot to him his share of your inheritance?

You do so.

He squanders it and dares to return. You run out to welcome him! A wealthy man that you are!

Everyone would understand if you instruct your servants to deny him entrance. Nobody would blame you if you refuse to see him for weeks on end. Or maybe banish him to the Servants Quarters

Instead you threw a lavish party and invited your neighbours and associates!

Ego. Honour. Anger. Shame. Position. Status. All forgotten.

That father is the colour of love to every child. Which leaves me wondering; those fathers who throw their daughters out for getting pregnant, is her error as grievous as that of the prodigal son?

 

#iwd2025: tackling the shame & stigma of a single mother

Sharon is one of the innumerable gifts Life sent my way as I traipsed through the valley of shadow of death via cancer

Recently, we were on the phone and I was taking her through a Values Elicitation session. Simply put, it is an NLP tool which helps dislodge you from your inertia by untangling your cobwebs.

Read below part of that call as consented by her.

SHARON’S STORY

“When I got pregnant, everything changed. Especially within my family. The disappointment was too heavy. I had gone from the promising daughter – with high hopes and expectations — who was trained abroad and brought back home, to an unwed single mother. A failure

I resigned from my job as I could not bear the shame. I left church due to the stigma which was worse because he was active in the church.

Then I had to move back home to the same neighbourhood I grew up in. This was after my father died and I was the only unmarried person in the family. In addition to the fact that I was struggling financially and by now dependent on the others, my mother needed someone so I moved in with my son.

The intervening years damaged my self esteem. I carry the shame around and feel like everyone is staring at me when I step out. I no longer have friends and no social interactions. So I only join online Groups and even there I do not talk as I do not want to be known. I also do not think I have any value to bring to anyone.

That is why I am very quiet in Groups .” This woman in her 40s concluded plaintively in her 5 year old voice.

“Congratulations. You try” I said sarcastically in a Nigerian slang

“So this is what you have been putting that teenage boy through?

“How do you mean” she asked

“You are raising a son who sees you tell him that he is a mistake. Do you have any idea what that is doing to his identity and esteem?

“But I do not know what to do. I am not bold like you”

“Is that what you think about me? bold? do you know the difference between I and you?

“No” she remarked

“Our glasses”

“Glasses?” I was enjoying her confusion

“Yes. Prisms. What we are looking at”

“I don’t understand”

men s brown dress shirt
Photo by Agung Pandit Wiguna on Pexels.com

CREATE YOUR MOSAIC

We are in a procession to some destination, all of us attired in white. As we sashay along, Life thoughtlessly tosses a bunch of rotten lemons at us. While some of us where lucky enough to step out of the way in time, a few of us watched in horror as our dresses welcomed the lemons.

Now, you Sharon, extricate yourself from the procession, flop down there with a soiled dress and start crying. I, on the other hand, noticing the damage to my attire began to go through a range of emotions like you.

However, instead of stopping, I kept moving, albeit slowly now. As I move, I make a mosaic of my outfit with the lemon stains. Although it stands me out from the team, it also draws attention to me and makes me intriguing. It says there is something about her which makes her dress different. Yet, she is daring enough to be here”.

As the world celebrates women today, I celebrate all Sharons! Get off the floor, look at your dress and decide the pattern you want to create. Remember that a mosaic is made up of different materials woven together to create a stunning piece.

Start now. #AccelerateAction!

 

“I would love to cheat on my wife too”

“You think I do not cheat because I love my wife so much?” his laughter cooled off as he switched on his serious face “Well, why else? or is it your moralist views?” I teased. Since I knew he was not big on religion There we stood by the frontage of my compound while he … Read more

adjusting to life as an immigrant.

“Your children have never seen you naked? How is that possible? I saw the wheels spinning behind Lucy’s eyes as she blinked astoundingly at Soraya. Two worlds were colliding here.

“Yes. This is the first time they would share bathroom with me. What business does my children have in my room when each person’s room is ensuite?

A few blank faces met other comprehending ones around the room.

“Each of your kids had their own room? Lucy asked again

And few of us nodded like the question was thrown at us while a black woman sitting beside her remarked “well that is a normal thing for us”

We were at a Wellbeing group for women run weekly by a Charity. I began attending although sporadically, after a referral when I was newly diagnosed of the Cancer.

Priceless. What this group has become in this new journey of mine. This space is a buffer for your sanity. A gathering of women from different walks of life talking over chai and coffee. This journey of cancer has redefined therapy for me. I am still redefining the word – cathartic.

In this space, language is not a barrier. Between; translation apps, gestures and someone else from your community with a better grasp of English, we understood ourselves.

Soraya is a Persian. The first time we met I had been impressed by her command of the English language. An inkling of her privileged background.

“Yes, we have a big house. And servants. My house is always full. Parties, laughter, we cook fresh food. But here, some people look at you like you are a beggar and do not know anything”. Her voice cracked as she wiped at her eyes

One of the women beside her rubbed her back.

“See my pictures”

Brandishing her phone; she circulated pictures of another life. One I grasped from where I sat. I had acquired enough social intelligence growing up in northern Nigeria to know what it means for a Muslim woman to share facilites with her teenage sons.

“Here. Said a volunteer pushing a cup of tea towards Soraya.

“Ladies, we can take a break if you want” Lucy announced. I felt sorry for her. She seemed totally out of her depth dealing with women across cultures.

We agreed to continue.

Asya, an Afghan and a first-time mother of a two month old baby, began speaking tentatively. Her baby was in the arms of another woman.

“I still find it very hard here. My husband says I will get used to it but when?”

“When I came here to the UK, I was ……… she searched her mental files for the word. As she grappled with her basic English, Soraya intervened. They both spoke Farsi.

“shocked”

“Yes. Shocked.

“Small houses. No parties. No markets. No people come to your house”

“As new wife, you alone and my husband go to work.”

All my life, lot of people inside house and outside. Children playing everywhere. Here, it is quiet like everyone run away.

“When I was pregnant, no mother, no grandmother to help. My baby take long to come and then they cut me to bring baby out. In hospital, they give me cold food.

Her voice quaked as she tried to compose herself. Some women nodded.

“Only me with baby until my husband come back from work.” Sometimes we don’t know what to do. sometimes I call my mother on phone”

“Do you not have help from other women in your community?” Lucy enquired

“Not same. They come and go. Nobody to stay with you and care for you and baby”

Her pain pierced me. It was one most BAME immigrants related to. For everything she described, an image flashed across my mind.

Nonetheless, the ironic use of the word ‘community’ abroad constantly amused me.

Even the people who felt inundated by community and craved their spaces back home, now cry out for community.

The other day, a Nigerian man had remarked how he missed the cacophony of the streets. Another missed waking up to see your neighbours setting up canopies knowing that your entire day was already lost to the noise of their party.

Yet, another missed the ‘disturbance’ from the church beside his house. How he disliked going home from work because of them but now willing to have them pitch their tent right back beside him.

Everyone now missed and craved ‘community’ including their mothers-in-law.

Listening to Asya share her story, my mind popped up an image. The countless times I had spent wishing a knock on the would be my mother showing up for duty.