Chimamanda Adichie - Americanah

“She is not functioning?”

“A nervous breakdown. I dislike that expression, it has a very old wives’ tale vibe to it. But that’s what Ovidio called it. She’s been in bed for days. She’s not eating. She won’t stop crying.”

Ifemelu felt a flash of irritation; even this, it seemed to her, was yet another way for Shan to demand attention.

“She’s had a really hard time,” Blaine said. “The book not getting any attention and all.”

“I know,” Ifemelu said, and yet she could feel no real sympathy, which frightened her. Perhaps it was because she held Shan responsible, at some level, for the fight with Blaine, for not wielding her power over Blaine to let him know he was overreacting.

“She’ll be fine,” Ifemelu said. “She’s a strong person.”

Blaine looked at her with surprise. “Shan is one of the most fragile people in the world. She’s not strong, she’s never been. But she’s special.”

The last time Ifemelu had seen Shan, about a month ago, Shan had said, “I just knew you and Blaine would get back together.” Hers was the tone of a person talking about a beloved sibling who had returned to psychedelic drugs.

“Isn’t Obama exciting?” Ifemelu had asked, hoping that this would, at least, be something she and Shan could talk about without an underlying prick of pins.

“Oh, I’m not following this election,” Shan had said dismissively.

“Have you read his book?” Ifemelu asked.

“No.” Shan shrugged. “It would be good if somebody read my book.”

Ifemelu swallowed her words. It’s not about you. For once, it’s not about you .

“You should read Dreams from My Father . The other books are campaign documents,” Ifemelu said. “He’s the real deal.”

But Shan was not interested. She was talking about a panel she had done the week before, at a writers’ festival. “So they ask me who my favorite writers are. Of course I know they expected mostly black writers and no way am I going to tell them that Robert Hayden is the love of my life, which he is. So I didn’t mention anybody black or remotely of color or politically inclined or alive. And so I name, with insouciant aplomb, Turgenev and Trollope and Goethe, but so as not to be too indebted to dead white males because that would be a little too unoriginal, I added Selma Lagerlöf. And suddenly they don’t know what to ask me, because I’d thrown the script out the window.”

“That’s so funny,” Blaine said.

ON THE EVE of Election Day, Ifemelu lay sleepless in bed.

“You awake?” Blaine asked her.

“Yes.”

They held each other in the dark, saying nothing, their breathing regular until finally they drifted into a state of half sleep and half wakefulness. In the morning, they went to the high school; Blaine wanted to be one of the first to vote. Ifemelu watched the people already there, in line, waiting for the door to open, and she willed them all to vote for Obama. It felt to her like a bereavement, that she could not vote. Her application for citizenship had been approved but the oath-taking was still weeks away. She spent a restless morning, checking all the news sites, and when Blaine came back from class he asked her to turn off the computer and television so they could take a break, breathe deeply, eat the risotto he had made. They had barely finished eating before Ifemelu turned her computer back on. Just to make sure Barack Obama was alive and well. Blaine made virgin cocktails for their friends. Araminta arrived first, straight from the train station, holding two phones, checking for updates on both. Then Grace arrived, in her swishy silks, a golden scarf at her neck, saying, “Oh my God, I can’t breathe for nervousness!” Michael came with a bottle of prosecco. “I wish my mama was alive to see this day no matter what happens,” he said. Paula and Pee and Nathan arrived together, and soon they were all seated, on the couch and the dining chairs, eyes on the television, sipping tea and Blaine’s virgin cocktails and repeating the same things they had said before. If he wins Indiana and Pennsylvania, then that’s it. It’s looking good in Florida. The news from Iowa is conflicting .

“There’s a huge black voter turnout in Virginia, so it’s looking good,” Ifemelu said.

“Virginia is unlikely,” Nathan said.

“He doesn’t need Virginia,” Grace said, and then she screamed. “Oh my God, Pennsylvania!”

A graphic had flashed on the television screen, a photo of Barack Obama. He had won the states of Pennsylvania and Ohio.

“I don’t see how McCain can do this now,” Nathan said.

Paula was sitting next to Ifemelu a short while later when the flash of graphics appeared on the screen: Barack Obama had won the state of Virginia.

“Oh my God,” Paula said. Her hand trembling at her mouth. Blaine was sitting straight and still, staring at the television, and then came the deep voice of Keith Olbermann, whom Ifemelu had watched so obsessively on MSNBC in the past months, the voice of a searing, sparkling liberal rage; now that voice was saying “Barack Obama is projected to be the next president of the United States of America.”

Blaine was crying, holding Araminta, who was crying, and then holding Ifemelu, squeezing her too tight, and Pee was hugging Michael and Grace was hugging Nathan and Paula was hugging Araminta and Ifemelu was hugging Grace and the living room became an altar of disbelieving joy.

Her phone beeped with a text from Dike.

I can’t believe it. My president is black like me . She read the text a few times, her eyes filling with tears.

On television, Barack Obama and Michelle Obama and their two young daughters were walking onto a stage. They were carried by the wind, bathed in incandescent light, victorious and smiling.

“Young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled, Americans have sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of red states and blue states. We have been and always will be the United States of America.”

Barack Obama’s voice rose and fell, his face solemn, and around him the large and resplendent crowd of the hopeful. Ifemelu watched, mesmerized. And there was, at that moment, nothing that was more beautiful to her than America.

Understanding America for the Non-American Black: Thoughts on the Special White Friend

One great gift for the Zipped-Up Negro is The White Friend Who Gets It. Sadly, this is not as common as one would wish, but some are lucky to have that white friend who you don’t need to explain shit to. By all means, put this friend to work. Such friends not only get it, but also have great bullshit-detectors and so they totally understand that they can say stuff that you can’t. So there is, in much of America, a stealthy little notion lying in the hearts of many: that white people earned their place at jobs and school while black people got in because they were black. But in fact, since the beginning of America, white people have been getting jobs because they are white. Many whites with the same qualifications but Negro skin would not have the jobs they have. But don’t ever say this publicly. Let your white friend say it. If you make the mistake of saying this, you will be accused of a curiosity called “playing the race card.” Nobody quite knows what this means.

When my father was in school in my NAB country, many American Blacks could not vote or go to good schools. The reason? Their skin color. Skin color alone was the problem. Today, many Americans say that skin color cannot be part of the solution. Otherwise it is referred to as a curiosity called “reverse racism.” Have your white friend point out how the American Black deal is kind of like you’ve been unjustly imprisoned for many years, then all of a sudden you’re set free, but you get no bus fare. And, by the way, you and the guy who imprisoned you are now automatically equal. If the “slavery was so long ago” thing comes up, have your white friend say that lots of white folks are still inheriting money that their families made a hundred years ago. So if that legacy lives, why not the legacy of slavery? And have your white friend say how funny it is, that American pollsters ask white and black people if racism is over. White people in general say it is over and black people in general say it is not. Funny indeed. More suggestions for what you should have your white friend say? Please post away. And here’s to all the white friends who get it.