I can barely begin to explain the catharsis of reading Adichie's prose. In particular, I am captivated by the way her stories respond to the expectations of "ethnic fiction" and "African fiction," as genres full of Third-world starvation and refugees. She deftly handles subjectivities of black African positionality, facets of identity which the market would slam as "inauthentic," or "not African enough." Her stories are delightfully astute, her characters cracking the lenses by which one might expect to view Nigeria. And they do not rely on resistance to justify their being; they are strong enough to simply exist.

Despite feeling wrung out at the end of some stories, I plowed through the collection in a day. I just ordered one of her novels, and am anxious to read more.