Has anyone else heard of this author? I find her works (at least the ones I've read) to be painfully and charmingly honest. Her two books ( Half of a Yellow Sun, Purple Hibiscus) are centered around people and their relationships during the Biafran War. Lately she seems to have turned her focus to writing short stories and articles for various papers.

Here's a site dedicated to her and her works : http://www.l3.ulg.ac.be/adichie/

Yeah she is really good

missus

who exactly are you asking

we all know her and she is pretty good

Ah? Well I am new here and not really sure who "everyone" knows

I'm a huge fan of "My Mother, the Crazy African" , anyone else have any favorites?


http://www.el-ghibli.provincia.bologna.it/id_1-issue_04_17-section_3-index_pos_2-inlingua_t.html

Purple Hibiscus is all ive read and i liked it.

Someone owes me the yellow sun, but he absconded with it

Ugh, don't you hate when people never return books that you reallllllllllly wanna read? I wish there was a penalty for such things,

So how did you feel about Purple Hibiscus?

Dont mind the guy, he actually was to send it through someone, but right now hes not on speaking terms
with the person.

I liked it the hibiscus

its in the simplistic tone i adore.

i could read it again and again.

the end wasnt expected, but i knew something was building up from the beginning

Yes, the end was unexpected yet lacked the annoying "suddenness" that most unexpected endings have, since things were building up for quite a while.

I think that it reflected the theme of hopelessness and boundaries in our country. Her father's relationship with her grandfather, her fathers thirst for control due to his fear and love for her, and her aunty's choice or whether to stay or leave were all excellent portrayals of this in my opinion.

Feministic:

Has anyone else heard of this author? I find her works (at least the ones I've read) to be painfully and charmingly honest. Her two books ( Half of a Yellow Sun, Purple Hibiscus) are centered around people and their relationships during the Biafran War. Lately she seems to have turned her focus to writing short stories and articles for various papers.

Here's a site dedicated to her and her works : http://www.l3.ulg.ac.be/adichie/

Hello and welcome to the literature section. Since you are new here, I'll like to give you some advice. If you are unsure about there being a thread regarding a topic you want to create a thread for, first of all do a search (the google search engine can be found at the bottom of any of the child boards or any page of Nairaland). The nairaland.com button is the default selection. This way, you will be able to see what has been posted regarding the topic you are interested in. If there is nothing relevant, then proceed with creating your thread. This way, we can all avoid repititive threads.

As it is, there are quite a number of threads on Chimamanda. See the following -

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-34320.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-96038.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-231.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-115499.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-146289.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-61098.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-58003.0.html

https://www.nairaland.com/nigeria/topic-102751.0.html

So, as you can see, there are many posts on Chimamanda and her works. These threads pasted above are not the only ones. There are many other threads in which she features.

Wow, that is a lot

and I will be sure to do that next time, thanks for the advice

lol

tried to tell ya

LOL
yea i tried scanning the first couple of pages but that looks, tedious

the search functions seems easier to use, though

sure is

te hehehe

I loved Half Of A Yellow Sun and Purple Hibiscus. But that's all I've read from her.

StephenP:

I loved Half Of A Yellow Sun and Purple Hibiscus. But that's all I've read from her.

Those are the only books she has written so far. The other things she has written are short stories/essays.

www.nairaland.com/attachments/40101_Chimamanda_Ngozi_Adichie_jpgc2222bbdab10347cbcb327cf3b72594d

Is she married or hooked up? i need a wife and she must be an author. The Adichie's are prolific writers. Her father(JN Adichie) is a statistics professor in UNN and has written many books used all over the world. The daughter is more popular because of art, google JN Adichie and you'll find out that he deserves more award that his daughter.

The Writing Life(From washington Post)
A novelist remembers the desks -- including her father's -- where she learned to write.

By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Sunday, June 17, 2007; Page BW11

In 1982, my father was appointed deputy vice chancellor of the University of Nigeria at Nsukka and assigned a new two- story house, number 305 on Marguerite Cartwright Avenue: graveled, landscaped, bright with red hibiscuses and green whistling pines. It had a shed at the entrance for the security guards; I would come to know one of them well, the gentle, ashy-skinned Vincent who slept through hot afternoons and told Igbo folk stories that involved a call and response. Our first day at the house, we looked at the parlor and kitchen and when it was time to go upstairs, I began to cry because the stairs were endless, insurmountably high and gleaming a deep burgundy. I refused to climb. I was 5 years old. Finally, my sister Uche held my hand, and we took it one step at a time until we got to the top. Weeks later, I was dashing up those stairs, whooping and sliding on a pillow down the banister with my brothers Okey and Kenechukwu.

I shared with them the biggest room upstairs; it had three beds, dressers, a wardrobe. It did not have a desk. It led out to a veranda where we played paper dolls, where I read Enid Blyton, where I skulked and watched the boy next door. The veranda had a second door that led to the study, my father's dusty lair, lined with shelves of statistics journals, and dominated by the large desk with a green place-name that said "Professor J N Adichie" placed at the center amid files, books, paper clips, pens and, at the farthest corner, the black rotary phone. I wonder now why the phone was kept in the study instead of, say, the passage downstairs, but it was, and throughout secondary school I had uncomfortable conversations with friends while my father sat there marking student assignments. Parts of the desk were so dusty I wrote down phone numbers with my finger. Or I just doodled. I wrote my first "book" at 10, on that desk, in an exercise notebook, titled "The Hopscoths."







Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Teller of Tales



Chinua Achebe and his family lived in Number 305 before we moved in. I realize now what an interesting coincidence it is that I grew up in a house previously occupied by the writer whose work is most important to me. There must have been literary spirits in the bathroom upstairs, which was larger and airier than the one downstairs, with a stately white tub that my mother complained was never cleaned well enough; I often got story ideas after taking bucket baths in it. But the only manifest Achebe legacy was on a window ledge in the dining room, scratch-written in the childish hand of his daughter: "Nwando Achebe." That window looked out to the backyard, to the avocado tree that had watery fruit and the guava tree on which chickens were tied before they were killed for lunch and the mango tree that fed the bats that lived in our roof.

I wrote at the dining table when I could not use my father's desk because he was working or because a sibling was on the phone. The table, light green and long, was the family dumping ground -- of newspapers, university circulars, wedding invitations, bananas or groundnuts bought on the way home -- and the tiny ants that lived underneath it appeared after breakfast to crowd around bits of sugar or bread. I always cleared a space for myself at one end, opposite the grand old wood-paneled air conditioner, used so rarely that a puff of dust always burst out before cool air followed. It was noisy and, during birthdays when the parlor was filled with friends and food, graduations, baby showers for my sisters, the celebratory party when my mother was appointed registrar, there was always a loud vacuum-like sound of the air conditioner in the background.

My brothers and I had separate rooms after our older siblings left home. Mine had a girlish table where I displayed my lotions and brown powder. It still did not have a desk.

In 1997, I left home to attend college in America. When I returned four years later with the final page proofs of my first novel, my parents had put a desk in my room. It was square and sturdy, and I spread out my page proofs and edited and marked them there. Two years later, when I returned to work on my second novel, my parents had installed an air conditioner; the lights blinked when I turned it on. I transcribed interviews and edited old writing at the dining table or at my father's desk in the study, where new television satellite wires trailed under the door. But I wrote only in my room and, from time to time, I would look out at the veranda, where years of rain had stained the floor a dull gray.

Last week, my parents moved out of the house. They are now retired from the university, and the house has been assigned to another family. As I spoke to them on the phone from my apartment in New Haven, I asked ridiculous questions -- Did you keep my secondary school books? Did you find that doll I lost in primary school? -- and fought tears. They talked about the hiring of lorries, the buying of cartons. They sounded practical and calm. How could they not see how momentous this was, that we were leaving behind 25 years of our lives. But of course they did; they simply are not as much given to drama as I am. While they talked about the old furniture they had given out, I entertained wild thoughts: I will find a way to become fantastically rich and will bribe the university into giving me the house back.

I hung up thinking about the last time I was in the house, this past summer. There was a power failure, and in the pitch blackness, I walked from my room, down the stairs, into the dining room to find a candle in the cabinet. I did not stumble once. ·
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/06/14/AR2007061401730.html

Written 10 years ago.
On Short Sleeves and the Church
By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie


The new priest at St. Peters Church is dark-skinned and hawk-like. After mass, he talks about a woman he refused to let into the church for a wedding because the blouse she wore with her George wrapper did not have a high-enough neckline. I was very happy we didnt let her in, he screeches with glee, a glee that strikes me as incredibly childlike.
It does not seem to matter to him that this woman was supposed to be a sponsor at the wedding, and that not letting her into the church must have ruined the wedding. Then he goes on to say that he will soon have people at the entrances of the church, manning the doors, ready to send back any woman in sleeveless shirts.

He makes these threats often, I learn later - he is on a self-made mission to purify the university community, to stop the jeans and short-sleeves the female students have been allowed to get away with. I also learn that this new priest refuses communion to women he considers improperly dressed. And that, as he walks into the church for mass, he stops to tap at women and ask them to leave.

My reaction - after my incredulity wore itself out - was where is the outrage in this university community? My cousin Ujuaku tells me the students were annoyed at first but they all have become so used to it that it doesnt bother them. And yet Ujuaku makes it a point to sit at the back of the church and never on the edge of the pews because she is afraid he might pick on her. Her dresses are long, her trousers loose-fitting, but she wears sleeveless shirts. The fans are not working, she tells me, and the church is always full. It is simply too hot to wear long-sleeves.

Elitist as this may sound, this priest, and the whole scenario, seemed to me odd in a Nigerian university community. But again, the university is changing in other ways - it is a place where murder is snaking itself in, where armed robbery is becoming commonplace, where people are no longer their brothers keepers. And yet the priest day after day, mass after mass, is focused on the clothes women wear.

After listening to that priest, I could not help wondering who exactly is being protected when a middle-aged mother is sent away from church because of her blouse - are we protecting the women from themselves? The men from the women? The men from some form of uncontrollable canine-like lust? Or are we protecting God from seeing bare female arms?

Mostly, though, I wonder if this kind of monotonous barrage that goes on not just in St Peters Church but in many Nigerian churches, this tugging at womens shirtsleeves, is not demeaning to the notion of faith itself, to the idea of an omniscient God.

That, to me, is the big shame.

http://www.asorock.com/people/AsoRockDefault.aspx?tabid=29#AsorockBannerTop

@Aloy.emeka,
Keep dreaming. That chic is hooked.

DeepZone:

@Aloy.emeka,
Keep dreaming. That chic is hooked.

Is she really? To whom? Source? There is a dearth of information on her personal life. This is really good. Better to have everyone concentrate on her literary skills.

Is she really? To whom? Source? There is a dearth of information on her personal life. This is really good. Better to have everyone concentrate on her literary skills.

Before nko, you think she's this fine and 'uptite' and still not hooked?

Na lie, she still dey single dey wait for me.

http://del.icio.us/seunosewa/adichie -- read some of her shorts on the web; they are awesome.

@seun,
is that your blog? delicious? what a name? sounds like porn site. Lots of good stuff there though.

Lmao.

Instead of talking about her, let us talk about her stories.  She's primarily a writer, afterall, not a celebrity.

Seun:

Instead of talking about her, let us talk about her stories. She's primarily a writer, afterall, not a celebrity.

abi oo!

Instead of talking about her, let us talk about her stories. She's primarily a writer, afterall, not a celebrity.

Oh no, she's now a celebrity.

Haven't read her books. Had an opportunity to do so, once though. . .

Haven't read her books. Had an opportunity to do so, once though.

You can read them anytime as long as you dont look at her pictures lustfully because she's engaged to me.

Hmmmm. she's not that hot abeg.

Instead of talking about her, let us talk about her stories. She's primarily a writer, afterall, not a celebrity.

yOU BLAME US; WETIN WE FOR DO NOW? Na asampete nwanyi oma be that now.