Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie can write for Africa, nay, the world, as we say in these parts, I give her that.
Unfortunately, like Soyinka, her books have always proved to be somewhat ponderous fare to me. That is me though, I am unabashedly hedonistic when it comes to literature – reading only for pleasure and nothing else when I can help it, which is the vaster majority of the time.
When I have to read for academic purposes, then of course, I put my hand to the plough and refuse to look back until that A grade is accomplished or as near to it as I can muster. So, with apologies to the multitudes who find Adichie’s work compelling, I mark myself as safe from spontaneous enjoyment when I had to pore through Half Of A Yellow Sun. Americanah and the rest of Adichie’s work I have not read, yet.
This her letter, though, is another thing altogether. It is naught but fraught with risks even though, generally speaking, it does…
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