Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Read Free Book Online Page A

did not flaunt his membership in the wealthy club, did not exercise the rights it brought—to be rude, to be inconsiderate, to be greeted rather than to greet—and because so many others like him exercised those rights, his choices were interpreted as humility. He did not boast, either, or speak about the things he owned, which made people assume he owned much more than he did. Even his closest friend, Okwudiba, often told him how humble he was, and it irked him slightly, because he wished Okwudiba would see that to call him humble was to make rudeness normal. Besides, humility had always seemed to him a specious thing, invented for the comfort of others; you were praised for humility by people because you did not make them feel any more lacking than they already did. It was honesty that he valued; he had always wished himself to be truly honest, and always feared that he was not.
    In the car on the way home from Chief’s party, Kosi said, “Darling, you must be hungry. You ate only that spring roll?”
    “And suya.”
    “You need to eat. Thank God I asked Marie to cook,” she said, and added, giggling, “Me, I should have respected myself and left those snails alone! I think I ate up to ten. They were so nice and peppery.”
    Obinze laughed, vaguely bored, but happy that she was happy.

    MARIE WAS SLIGHT , and Obinze was not sure whether she was timid or whether her halting English made her seem so. She had been with them only a month. The last housegirl, brought by a relative ofGabriel’s, was thickset and had arrived clutching a duffel bag. He was not there when Kosi looked through it—she did that routinely with all domestic help because she wanted to know what was being brought into her home—but he came out when he heard Kosi shouting, in that impatient, shrill manner she put on with domestic help to command authority, to ward off disrespect. The girl’s bag was on the floor, open, clothing fluffing out. Kosi stood beside it, holding up, at the tips of her fingers, a packet of condoms.
    “What is this for? Eh? You came to my house to be a prostitute?”
    The girl looked down at first, silent, then she looked Kosi in the face and said quietly, “In my last job, my madam’s husband was always forcing me.”
    Kosi’s eyes bulged. She moved forward for a moment, as though to attack the girl in some way, and then stopped.
    “Please carry your bag and go now-now,” she said.
    The girl shifted, looking a little surprised, and then she picked up her bag and turned to the door. After she left, Kosi said, “Can you believe the nonsense, darling? She came here with condoms and she actually opened her mouth to say that rubbish. Can you believe it?”
    “Her former employer raped her so she decided to protect herself this time,” Obinze said.
    Kosi stared at him. “You feel sorry for her. You don’t know these housegirls. How can you feel sorry for her?”
    He wanted to ask,
How can you not?
But the tentative fear in her eyes silenced him. Her insecurity, so great and so ordinary, silenced him. She was worried about a housegirl whom it would never even occur to him to seduce. Lagos could do this to a woman married to a young and wealthy man; he knew how easy it was to slip into paranoia about housegirls, about secretaries, about
Lagos Girls
, those sophisticated monsters of glamour who swallowed husbands whole, slithering them down their jeweled throats. Still, he wished Kosi feared less, conformed less.
    Some years ago, he had told her about an attractive banker who had come to his office to talk to him about opening an account, a young woman wearing a fitted shirt with an extra button undone, trying to hide the desperation in her eyes. “Darling, your secretary should not let any of these bank marketing girls come into your office!” Kosi had said,as though she seemed no longer to see him, Obinze, and instead saw blurred figures, classic types: a wealthy man, a female banker who had been given a target