By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

One of The New York Times's Ten most sensible Books of the Year

Winner of the nationwide booklet Critics Circle Award for Fiction

An NPR "Great Reads" e-book, a Chicago Tribune top ebook, a Washington publish Notable booklet, a Seattle occasions Best e-book, an Entertainment Weekly most sensible Fiction e-book, a Newsday Top 10 e-book, and a Goodreads Best of the 12 months pick.

A robust, smooth tale of race and identification by means of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the award-winning writer of Half of a Yellow Sun.

Ifemelu and Obinze are younger and in love once they leave military-ruled Nigeria for the West. attractive, confident Ifemelu heads for the USA, the place regardless of her educational luck, she is pressured to grapple with what it capability to be black for the 1st time. Quiet, considerate Obinze had was hoping to hitch her, yet with post-9/11 the USA closed to him, he as an alternative plunges right into a risky, undocumented existence in London. Fifteen years later, they reunite in a newly democratic Nigeria, and reignite their passion—for one another and for his or her homeland. 

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Thank you,” she stated to Ruth. seeing that she got here to the United States, she had continually braided her hair with lengthy extensions, regularly alarmed at how a lot it fee. She wore every one sort for 3 months, even 4 months, till her scalp itched unbearably and the braids sprouted fuzzily from a mattress of latest development. And so it was once a brand new event, enjoyable her hair. She got rid of her braids, cautious to go away her scalp unscratched, to go away undisturbed the dust that might guard it. Relaxers had grown of their variety, packing containers and packing containers within the “ethnic hair” portion of the pharmacy, faces of smiling black ladies with impossibly immediately and glossy hair, beside phrases like “botanical” and “aloe” that promised gentleness. She obtained one in a eco-friendly carton. In her toilet, she rigorously smeared the protecting gel round her hairline ahead of she started to slather the creamy relaxer on her hair, part by means of part, her hands in plastic gloves. The scent reminded her of chemistry lab in secondary university, and so she pressured open the rest room window, which used to be frequently jammed. She timed the method conscientiously, washing off the relaxer in precisely twenty mins, yet her hair remained kinky, its denseness unchanged. The relaxer didn't take. That used to be the word—“take”—that the hairdresser in West Philadelphia used. “Girl, you wish a professional,” the hairdresser acknowledged as she reapplied one other relaxer. “People imagine they’re saving funds by way of doing it at domestic yet they’re fairly now not. ” Ifemelu felt just a moderate burning, firstly, yet because the hairdresser rinsed out the relaxer, Ifemelu’s head bent backwards opposed to a plastic sink, needles of stinging discomfort shot up from varied components of her scalp, all the way down to assorted elements of her physique, again as much as her head. “Just a bit burn,” the hairdresser stated. “But glance how beautiful it truly is. Wow, woman, you’ve received the white-girl swing! ” Her hair was once placing down instead of status up, instantly and glossy, parted on the part and curving to a mild bob at her chin. The verve used to be long past. She didn't realize herself. She left the salon nearly mournfully; whereas the hairdresser had flat-ironed the ends, the odor of burning, of whatever natural demise which don't have died, had made her believe a feeling of loss. Curt seemed doubtful whilst he observed her. “Do you're keen on it, babe? ” he requested. “I can see you don’t,” she stated. He acknowledged not anything. He reached out to stroke her hair, as if doing so may possibly make him love it. She driven him away. “Ouch. cautious. i've got a little bit relaxer burn. ” “What? ” “It’s now not too undesirable. I used to get all of it the time in Nigeria. examine this. ” She confirmed him a keloid at the back of her ear, a small enraged swelling of dermis, which she received after Aunty Uju straightened her hair with a sizzling comb in secondary institution. “Pull again your ear,” Aunty Uju usually acknowledged, and Ifemelu might carry her ear, annoying and unbreathing, terrified that the red-hot comb clean from the range may burn her but additionally serious about the chance of hetero, swingy hair. And someday it did burn her, as she moved a little and Aunty Uju’s hand moved a bit of and the new steel singed the outside at the back of her ear.

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