Taking a bite out of Chimamanda’s buttered toast
Dream Count ★★
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
4th Estate
When reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's latest offering Dream Count I was reminded of a favourite scene of mine in one of the Narnia books I read as a child. In the scene, the four siblings who must navigate a talking lion, a witch and a precarious wardrobe are so starved that they start craving buttered toast. One of the blandest foods to crave but at that moment of having no other option, even toast would suffice.
I also found myself salivating at the thought of sinking my teeth into warm, crunchy bread that crackled at every bite. That hearty scent of rich butter all washed down with orange juice, hot chocolate or tea. I was also with very few options and immediately became enamoured with the hungry siblings and their plight. To this day, buttered toast is a comfort food I always return to. Not as a breakfast or “girl dinner” but rather as a bite packed with memories that make me feel warm.
In Dream Count, Adichie tells the story of four women interlinked by the same desires. Men. The book was inspired by the passing of Adichie's mother and her curiosity about how she would relate to one of the characters, Kadiotou. While this might be an ensemble, Kadiotou's harrowing story is only a common thread that pops up between the other characters. Specifically Chiamaka, who dominates the tale. She and her best friend Zikora have first-person narration, while Kadiotou and Chiamaka's acerbic cousin, Omelogor, have their experiences narrated to us.
Through their journeys, we learn a lot about their lives in the way that Adichie has done in books like Half of a Yellow Sun. Chiamaka is a frustrating mess to whom many reading the pages might relate. You either know of a Chiamaka or you have a friend like her. Something of a Nigerian-born Carrie Bradshaw meets Emma Woodhouse, Chiamaka is a funny mess to follow. Particularly when it comes to her ill-fated relationship with her hotep (term typically used for black men who are Afrocentric to a regressive degree) boyfriend, Darnell. Through dinners and dates, we see how Darnell posits himself as a revolutionary intellectual but continues to disappoint Chiamaka, who places a lot of her self-worth on the men she dates. Even in the relationship's end, where Darnell overreacts about Chiamaka ordering a mimosa in a swanky French restaurant in Paris. She dodges his hysteria and starts a relationship with a married man that dissolves as quickly as it started. However, it does give her insight into interracial dating, but does not remedy the assimilation she has to perform when dating men from different backgrounds.
Her confidants, Zikora and Omelogor, act as powerful gal pals who are resolute in their disagreements yet cautious enough not to hurt Chiamaka's feelings. Zikora is a golden child who eventually falls for the good guy type in Kwame, before their relationship fizzles out when both parties fail to effectively communicate their thoughts on her pregnancy. This is where the book shines the most as we get left with Zikora's isolation, her perseverance through a pregnancy she was quietly excited about and concludes with endless attempts to keep in touch with Kwame. In what Adichie describes as an “unfinished dying”, the labour of falling out of love and in connection with her soul mate is heartbreaking and nearly makes the book a literary realism masterpiece were it not for the cracks that start to show.
Kadiotou's story is told in third-person narrative because of Adichie's respect for the real-life events it was inspired by. However, Omelogor, who runs a microblog, is also not given the honour of telling her own tale. As one of the more exciting women in terms of her world views, this makes Omelogor an anticlimactic character to read about. With Adichie employing the same linguistics when writing in Zikora and Chiamaka's voices, it often feels like they play big brother over Kadiotou and Omelogor's lives as there are no distinct differences in how she retells each woman's tale. Their passivity also makes them feel like one woman in four different versions of a Marvel multiverse, à la their very own What If series.
This is where Adichie becomes a buttered toast author. There are no surprises with butter toast, and neither are there any with Adichie's book. You know what you are going to get: page after page of women pining over men, their mothers pining over grandkids and their female relatives pining over their dowager lives. It is a void obsessed with women who are stereotypes; the flighty columnist, the pregnant, shrewd lawyer, the middle-aged woman obsessed with pornography and the poverty-stricken outlier who is fodder for the haves and the have-nots.
Perhaps fuelled by being a member of the queer community, there is nothing new to Dream Count. Nothing profound in its obsession with the mundane and its characters who are not daring enough to try something new. In a failure to explore the feelings an desires of women in their forties to fifties, Dream Count is a perfect read for chick-lit lovers who wish to be affirmed in their beliefs with the promise of excellent prose.
If that does not apply to you, I suggest you look to another author to butter your bread.