How could the life of a white middle-class European expat resemble in any way that of a black Nigerian migrant who is facing racism for the first time? Probably hardly, if at all. And yet, the first time I read this book, it spoke to me in many familiar ways.

The strangeness of Ifemelu, her out-of-placeness during the first months she is trying to find her way in the American society, her deep feeling of solitude are not unknown to anyone who has moved to a country different than their own, where new social norms and habits must be apprehended, where your identity is put into question and must be renegotiated if you are ever to (at least) survive in it—although the colour of my skin was never a part in the equation.

This book found me (among hundred others in a library) at a time when I was lacking a friend, and for three days I clung to it as if it were life itself. For three nights and three days Ifemelu became a reflection of my own self—or I of hers. Her girlish insecurities, her clumsiness around the new culture, her naivete mirrored my own. I too felt isolated, I too felt misunderstood; I might be a white in a world of whites, but I too felt different.

Quite unexpectedly, Americanah became my neverending story. Self-locked away from the world in my bedroom, I lived through Ifemelu’s (mis)adventures as if they were my own. I cried when she cried and was outraged when she was. Eventually, I found myself terrified of running out of pages for fear my own self would come to an end when the book did. That’s how intense my reading was.

I am not sure whether Adichie would approve of this strong connection. She did put into precise and beautiful words what it is like to be a foreigner, how it feels not to belong, and on those experiences, plus my condition as a young adult woman, I recognised myself in Ifemelu. Unintentionally I focused on our similarities and left out our differences. Yet, Americanah is also (and mainly) a powerful statement against structural racism and an invitation for everyone to reconsider their role in it. It is easy for me to ignore my whiteness and feel that a black heroine represents me. It is easy for me to believe that I understand how she must be feeling, that I share her thoughts on race and discrimination and inequality. But can I really? Ain’t I speaking from a position of privilege? Isn’t it patronizing to think that I can relate to what she is going through when my experiences are in no way determined by race?

Or maybe this is precisely the magic of Adichie: her mastery at generating empathy. None of the above questions would roam around and torture my mind had I not first develop that bond with Ifemelu, that fictional friendship that only a good story can elicit. We both were young, we both were foreigners, we both were women. That was enough for me to let me be guided through her path blindly. A path towards deconstruction and relearning.

I wonder whether Obinze (the male character in the novel) has the same power of attraction with men. Or is it only when you already know oppression that you are more able to recognize other oppressions too?