One Friend Starts Randomly Reciting Poetry

a review of Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

If we get a share in the world’s delights (unlikely animal friendships, the beautiful marriage of pastry and coffee, when you’re thinking about someone and they text you like it’s mind magic), we have a duty to immerse ourselves in its failings. Adichie makes it palatable.

As a kid, I was terrified of the holocaust because of my resemblance to Anne Frank--white, brown hair, avid journalers, I think that’s it but I’m not sure because I never read the book. In 2007, I lied about reading The Boy in the Striped Pajamas in English class (Don’t tell Mrs. Brown). I didn’t want to read the book so I said it was “good.” In 2008, I was too afraid to watch “The Crucible” movie (it’s spooky!) so I sat outside the classroom while the rest of my class watched. But now I know terrible things happen regardless of my awareness of and reaction to them. 

Half of a Yellow Sun tells stories of the Nigerian Civil War through the intersecting lives of dutiful Ugwu, level-headed Olanna, and bumbling fool Richard (with erectile dysfunction… what does it all mean…). The war slowly strips away worldly delights. Gone are raucous yet sophisticated dinner parties where that one friend starts randomly reciting poetry, book collections, dank soups, salt. They disappear slowly and then suddenly. Though it’s sad, the characters are human beings with coping skills who can adapt to varying degrees of success. “Adapt or die!” I said one minute into quarantine, like a bumbling fool.

This book is a chefs’ kiss example of how fiction helps metabolize painful history. Honorable mention to Adichie’s descriptions of food that help us taste terrible times. Fried powdered egg yolk! Beer with fanta! I was/am a hungry legend and my favorite book at one point was The Truth Cookie by Fiona Dunbar because I loved reading the descriptions of food. Same goes--I need Ugwu’s pepper soup RFQ (right fucking quick). 

It’s a story of family but not in a corny Google super bowl ad way. It’s about real family: the one we build and grow over time, those who may or may not share our DNA. We learn how our understanding of family shifts amidst crisis, perhaps for the better, though it feels perverse to say so. Ok. I’m like… trying too hard to sound like an NYT Contributing Opinion Writer. 

What… do you think they’re talking about…?

There’s a baby named Baby and I enjoyed when an adult male formally addresses the baby by saying “Hello, Baby.” There’s Richard’s kooky servant Harrison who is always making elaborate dishes that no one really asked for. There are meditations on how to stomach cheating in romantic relationships. The whole book is a gift we don’t really deserve. File this under “Adichie is GOAT.”