AFTER I recently read Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s latest novel, Americanah, I decided that I would make it a point to read more books by African writers. I’ve mentioned before that I read mainly British and American authors – mainly women, mainly white, mainly dead. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like eating food from only one culture when there is much more available.
I can count the number of African novels I’ve read on the fingers of one hand. It’s shameful. Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart certainly (who hasn’t), but it’s been few and far between since then – in fact, I should most certainly revisit that book as I read it when I was 13 and I don’t think I quite got it.
