Americanah

by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Ferdinand had a steely, amoral face; if one examined his hands, the blood of his enemies might be found crusted under his fingernails.

She had always liked this image of herself as too much trouble, as different, and she sometimes thought of it as a carapace that kept her safe.

And her joy would become a restless thing, flapping its wings inside her, as though looking for an opening to fly away.