I have been reading much of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's writing off late. There's something powerful about her unapologetic sense of place and deep resonance with the characters that breathe through her words - fictionalized or not. It's increasingly rare to find writing that lacks shades of pretense or the attempt to sound intelligent. Writing that simply stands for itself, confident, unwavering in its meaning and purpose. Yet, I'd imagine, the meaning and purpose carried through her pages must change for each reader, different in their lived experiences.
Initiated into her mind through her popularizing TED talk and her book on why We Should All Be Feminists, I found myself craving more. Her book 'The Thing Around Your Neck', an anthology rooted in the varied yet shared culture of Nigerians living both inside and outside their native country, left me introspective and shattered. Her resolve against pandering to a white manner of writing, retaining her original voice down to the language in which her characters think - translating dialogue only when necessary - was thrilling to read. It made me find footing in my own culture, relating to experiences I simultaneously have and have not had. She has a knack for addressing entrenched societal injustices not by shining light on them, rather, by showcasing the lives of people who live through them. Gender stereotypes, familial battles, sexual assault, political strife or even death - each navigated through parts that make up an individual, rather than the sole definitions of a character or their fate. There's more to life than its isolated incidents, gender, sexuality or marital status. The complexity of humanity, emotion and intelligence run far deeper.
Adichie articulates her thoughts from the months leading up to and following her father's sudden, unexpected death. Her bursts of emotion, written as punctuated chapters of what seem like fleeting ponders, were notably similar to how I process grief. While I don't express crippling sadness externally in the manner she recounts from her own reaction to the news, I find that loss leaves me feeling just as listless. The kind of listlessness that results in a constant internal dialogue between different voices - ranging from crumbling to optimistic - all canceling each other out to come across as outwardly composed. Warm nostalgia fills me like a sentimental hug on some days, resulting in several remember when's, while on others, I'm enveloped in a cloud of despair, with not much linking the two.
Her jumping thoughts aptly represent what grief ultimately feels like. It's not a constant languishing, even though there is often the expectation for it to be. It's a shuffling of feet, a nagging discomfort and emptiness that makes little sense. I don't think the stages of grief are as straight forward as we're led to believe. It's not the neat succession of states of mind, rather, it's the jumbled coexistence of them all. It is often shared, but never directly. Everyone experiences, expresses and envisions it differently. Ever notice how we crave solidarity in sadness, but seldom find comfort in it?
~
Oh well. It's now been two days since I started writing this post, and my thoughts have dispersed and diffused. Perhaps I'll attempt making sporadic sense of my losses and grief here on out inspired by Adichie's note-making. I've spent most of my life note-taking, and making is an art I am still working on. It was striking to read words of vulnerability from a strong, awe-inspiring, independent feminist - one whose speeches and writing otherwise tend to invoke a sensation of power and solidity in me. Her notes were subtle reminders that (now more than ever) we should be kinder to ourselves, and make allowances for feeling. It's important. No one ought to be defined in one singular manner - not Chimamanda or you or me - like gender, sexuality, grief or self-expression, identity is fluid. (Yet another take, perhaps, on the Dangers of a Single Story.)
I'll close now, and turn to her next promising piece -
