Unelmia

by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Cristina Sandu (Translator)

Neljä erilaista naista, joiden elämää muovaavat rakkaus, kipu ja alituinen kaipuu toisen lähelle.

Säkenöivän kiihkeä romaani on kirjallinen suurtapaus.

Nigerialainen matkakirjailija Chiamaka kärsii lamauttavasta yksinäisyydestä pandemian aikana. Zikora, menestynyt juristi, onkin yhtäkkiä sydänsurujen keskellä kärvistelevä yksinhuoltaja. Itsenäinen Omelogor tutkii pornoa sukupuolentutkimuksen graduaan varten. Kadiatou, Chiamakan kodinhoitaja, yrittää koota omanarvontuntonsa rippeitä tultuaan raiskatuksi.

Adichien odotettu teos on kirkas tutkielma rakkaudesta, seksistä ja unelmista, joita ilman ei ole elämää.

Genres: Fiction, Africa, Literary Fiction, Contemporary, Book Club, Audiobook, Nigeria

450 pages, Hardcover

First published March 4, 2025

About the author

CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE grew up in Nigeria. Her work has been translated into more than fifty-five languages. She is the author of the novels Purple Hibiscus, which won the Commonwealth Writers' Prize; Half of a Yellow Sun, which was the recipient of the Women’s Prize for Fiction “Best of the Best” award; Americanah, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award; the story collection The Thing Around Your Neck and the essays We Should All Be Feminists and Dear Ijeawele, or A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions. Her most recent work is an essay about losing her father, Notes on Grief, and Mama’s Sleeping Scarf, a children’s book written as Nwa Grace-James. A recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, she divides her time between the United States and Nigeria.

Reviews

[Nilufer Ozmekik · Rating 5 out of 5]

My heart ached and soared as I immersed myself in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Dream Count, a soul-stirring masterpiece that left me breathless. This isn't just a novel – it's a mirror reflecting the raw, beautiful complexity of women's lives, told with such tender insight that I found myself wiping away tears more than once.

The four Nigerian women at the heart of this story became my constant companions, their struggles and triumphs echoing in my mind long after I turned the last page. Chiamaka's lonely pandemic isolation in America pierced me deeply – her desperate search for meaning in past relationships felt like a conversation with my own memories. Zikora's story of betrayal and resilience made my chest tight with recognition; how many of us have built gleaming professional facades while our hearts crumbled in silence?

I fell deeply in love with Omelogor's fierce spirit, even as my heart broke watching her realize that her corporate armor couldn't protect her innermost self. But it was Kadiatou, the housekeeper, who truly captured my soul – her quiet dignity in the face of crushing systemic inequality left me both inspired and angry at the world's persistent injustices.

What moved me most profoundly was Adichie's extraordinary ability to make me feel the weight of every choice these women face. The pandemic backdrop amplifies their isolation and vulnerability with devastating precision. Through their intertwined stories, I found myself questioning everything I thought I knew about privilege, resilience, and the true nature of fulfillment.

The prose itself is a thing of devastating beauty – there were passages so piercing I had to pause and catch my breath. Adichie doesn't just tell these stories; she makes you live them, feel them in your bones. Her observations about identity, ambition, and cultural expectations aren't just insightful – they're transformative.

This isn't a book you simply read and set aside. It's an experience that changes you, challenges you, and ultimately enriches your understanding of what it means to be human. Dream Count is more than a masterpiece – it's a gift that reminds us why literature has the power to heal, unite, and illuminate the deepest corners of our shared humanity.

A very huge thanks to NetGalley and Knopf, Pantheon, Vintage, and Anchor | Knopf for sharing this amazing book's digital reviewer copy with me in exchange for my honest thoughts.

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[luce (cry bebè's back from hiatus) · Rating 2 out of 5]

The kind of book that makes me glad to be a lesbian.

It’s never a good sign when the author’s note at the end of a 400+ page book resonates with you more than the 400+ pages that came before it. I found myself wishing I had read the book Adichie meant to write because what I got didn’t match her description/vision of it. It’s frustrating when a supposedly female-centered narrative spends so much time focusing on men—men who are all varying levels of shitty, from just… ugh to full-on assholes and creeps.

And considering how long this novel is, with all the different perspectives we’re given, it’s painfully heteronormative in a way that honestly makes me feel bad for heterosexual women. While I understand Adichie may have felt misrepresented by the media or online discourse, it feels like she took that frustration and used it to sour what could’ve been a realistic, nuanced exploration of real-life experiences and people. Instead, we get a novel that is didactic, condescending, and at times, rancorous. I get feeling resentful if you believe your words, work, or actions have been misinterpreted. But doubling down and turning your characters into case studies or mere mouthpieces for your frustration? I don’t think that’s helpful. What I wanted was tenderness, love, and ambiguity...I wanted complex, messy emotions...but what I got instead was moralistic, simplistic, and honestly, almost regressive (everyone’s a hypocrite). It saddens me as I do believe that Adichie was trying to achieve something very different from what I ended up taking away from her novel...full review to come at some point.

[BookOfCinz Reading Retreat Host · Rating 2 out of 5]

Someone tweeted that Adichie is a great writer but a bad storyteller and that is exactly how I felt reading this book. The writing is beautiful but.... where was the story? I felt like I resonated more with the 2 page author's note than with the entire book. I actually went and did a google search because I was so moved by the note and why Adichie decided to write this book.

Personally, I just could not get behind a book told from the perspective of four women that felt very male centered. It was very exhausting and there was not real plot.

Underwhelming.

[emma]

new chimamanda ngozi adichie...i used to pray for times like these

(thanks to the publisher for the e-arc)

[Flo · Rating 3 out of 5]

Longlisted for Women's Prize for Fiction 2025 - This is, unfortunately, Chimamanda's weakest novel—perhaps because it isn’t actually a novel. It consists of four stories about four different women that vary in quality and tone, yet are never convincingly connected into a cohesive narrative, despite an event designed to do so.

That event, inspired by the Dominique Strauss-Kahn incident, completely shifts the book’s tone and highlights why the author remains controversial across the political spectrum. Being political is not inherently bad, but one must be careful not to let their voice turn into mere noise—as happens here with Omelogor, who comes across as that one person who criticizes everything and everyone.

I understand Chimamanda’s desire to comment on the scandal, but I don’t think fiction is the right medium for it. The imagined "good" ending that Dream Count presents essentially assumes that the victim wouldn’t want her story to be brought back into the public eye. As a radical feminist, Chimamanda also seems to overlook that some stories aren’t hers to tell.

[switterbug (Betsey) · Rating 5 out of 5]

[4.75]

“Novels are never really about what they are about.”—Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Adichie has never let me down. After reading her novel of the Biafran War, Half of a Yellow Sun, and then Purple Hibiscus, I wanted her to have my babies. Her novels are particularly stunning and intimate, with fully fleshed-out characters who could walk off the pages into my life. I find it really difficult to read ebooks, but I was too eager to wait, and Net Galley offered this digital copy. As ever, Adichie breaks my heart and somehow manages to put it back together with hope and heft. I want to read it again when the paper copy is published. I'll admit, I have a hard time reviewing ebooks, so excuse all my broad reductions.

This is a story about four interconnected women (by blood or friendship), the pandemic cutting through the setting or fading in the background, and the women's hopes and dreams in the foreground. It’s also about love, of course, relationships, and dignity and self-care, a sense of identity and also courage to live your life with purpose and confidence. And finding the right people who support you.

Each woman has her own long section in the book that focuses on their attachments, their ambitions, and their introspections. Chia (Chiamaka) is the first narrator, and perhaps the main character in this ensemble cast. (You decide when you are finished). She is a Nigerian travel writer, a determined beauty still looking for love in some of the wrong places. She’s lived in America long enough to amass a lot of our euphemistic verbiage, which adds a comic flair at well-timed moments. The title of the book refers to Chia’s musings about her exes, which her friends called her body count but she insists are her “dream count.” She often reflected on the men that shaped the landscape of her life.

Zikora, Chia’s good friend, is a successful lawyer with a boyfriend that she adores. She is not exactly estranged from her mother but maintains a cool distance. When something happens to upset the balance of her current relationship, she has to decide whether to let her mother back into her closely guarded life.

Omegolor is Chia’s cousin, and a fiercely independent woman working in the banking industry in Nigeria. She comes to America for graduate school, probably the oldest in her class. This is where the reader will come full force into the culture wars that are dividing us. Adichie explores this without putting her own thumb on the scale. She’s so nuanced that you won’t feel lectured by the narrative, but rather heightened. It’s about identity and finding your own voice. Omegolor often pushed back on the other students with their talking points. She starts to realize the hollowness of these naïve students and their tailored points of view.

Kadiatou is Chia’s housekeeper, an immigrant who was reluctant to come to the U.S. She gave in primarily to give her daughter more options. What happens to Kadiatou is a representation of immigrant women everywhere—class struggles, misogyny, the judicial system, and who can buy justice. An incident leaves her powerless and afraid. The way she finally takes back her power---well, you won’t see it coming, but it is authentic. I was deeply satisfied with the ending.

Adichie’s author’s note at the end is one of the most beautiful I have ever read. I won’t spoil it, but it flawlessly ties together her own life and grief (of her mother’s death) with the themes of the story, especially with one particular character. Dream Count is a deep exploration of human desires, the search for love and identity, and the struggle of integration in America. Captivating, and never heavy-handed. Ms. Adichie covers serious and topical themes with lightness and original content. Generous and wise, lyrical and memorable.

“I wanted love, old-fashioned love. I wanted my dreams afloat with his…to share our truest selves, to fight and be briefly bereft…But it was pedestrian, he said, this idea of love, bourgeois juvenilia that Hollywood has been feeding people for years.”

“…I dreamed not of marriage but of how we might become truly intertwined…More than marriage, I was looking for what I then did not know as the resplendence of being truly known.”

Thank you to Net Galley and Knopf for providing me a digital copy for review.

[Kezia Duah · Rating 4 out of 5]

I’ve never really considered myself part of a book’s "target audience.” I truly believe I’m the right audience for every book because I’m always open to experiencing new perspectives, no matter how odd or unsettling they may be. That said, the complexity of this story intimidated me more times than I can count making me question if I’m the right audience. I often found myself wondering if I was fully grasping everything Adichie was trying to convey with each sentence. I’m even intimidated to write a review, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

You know how most books have a clear beginning, middle, and end? I’d dare say this book is all of that at once. Adichie has truly written something unlike anything I’ve ever read before. This book was A LOT. Not necessarily in a good or bad way—just a lot. I felt like I was thrown headfirst into the raw experiences of four distinct yet interconnected women without any warning. I just kept feeling and feeling so many emotions.

At its core, I think this story is about love and acceptance—though in a way that often feels almost sadistic, deeply ingrained in African culture. It asks, “What are we willing to do to be accepted?” “How much of ourselves are we willing to sacrifice to meet expectations that are constantly imposed on us?” Many times, I found myself judging these women, wanting to yell at them to have more self-respect. But then I had to remind myself to be more empathetic. Some ways of life are all people have ever known, and breaking free from them isn’t always easy.

Of course, each woman’s experience is unique. Kadiatou’s story shattered me, and knowing how closely it mirrors real-life events made it even more devastating. Then there’s Omelogor—so different in her bluntness and fierce personality. But despite their differences, their stories are beautifully interwoven, exploring an almost overwhelming number of themes, from racism and sexism to politics and power dynamics.

My only real struggle was connecting with the characters early on and fully understanding what kind of story this was. Even now, I’m not sure I completely connected with everyone. I also found myself looking for some sort of resolution, something to fully tie everything together. However, the author’s note helped with this, giving me deeper insight into Adichie’s perspective.

[karen · Rating 5 out of 5]

how i have missed reading adichie's confident prose. do not leave us alone for so long again...

[Patten · Rating 1 out of 5]

I have been an avid reader of Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie since I first read 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘩 while decompressing in Arizona after my first semester of grad school. I went back and read her brilliant first two novels, 𝘗𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘏𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘴 and 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘠𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘚𝘶𝘯. I’ve even taught her TED Talk, “The Danger of a Single Story,” to my freshman writing students to indicate why they should use a variety of sources and perspectives when researching. Her writing allowed me to discover Chinua Achebe’s African Trilogy.

To put it lightly, I was thrilled when Knopf granted me an advance read of her first book in over a decade, 𝘋𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵.

𝘋𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 is structured as five separate novellas with connecting characters and slightly connecting themes and plot elements. Each novella focuses on one of four women: Chiamaka/Chia, Zikora, Kadiatou, and Omelogor. Chiamaka’s story spans the first and last novella and gives the book its title - over COVID lockdown, she is doing a “dream count” of all the men she’s loved or thought she loved. If you think that shouldn’t take an entire pandemic, then…yeah. Omelogor’s is the longest and the only told in first person.

However, this book is disappointing. And I’m not saying it’s disappointing for Adichie, I’m saying it’s disappointing. It suffers from so many flaws that I know I didn’t list them all.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱:
- The structure. I like the idea of interconnecting novellas. It prevents mildly similar voices from running on top of each other.
- Omelogor’s section is actually fantastic for about the first three quarters.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲:
- Lazy, lazy, lazy writing. Adichie usually writes such brilliant, beautiful prose, but this book has so much telling and not showing. It’s very clear that Adichie wants this book to make a point against Western post-COVID feminism and progressivism to the point it’s almost comical how one-dimensional the characters are in places.
- The whole book is one large failing of the Bechdel Test. It’s almost completely just women talking about men and their relationships with men. Even when women talk about other women, they are talking about those women in terms of their relationships with men.
- Kadiatou’s story is so extremely out of place. It’s a not subtle at all retelling of the sexual assault by the head of the International Monetary Fund which even the author calls an “urge to write a wrong.” She is only loosely connected to the other characters by virtue of being Chiamaka’s housekeeper.
- Aside from a couple of cameos, Zikora almost completely disappears from the book after her section.
- The last quarter of Omelogor’s section takes an extremely interesting and unique character and basically cuts her off at the knees in order to make some sort of statement about American progressivism and academia.
- Aside from Kadiatou (who remember, doesn’t fit the structure), all of the characters are rich and privileged and the book seems to be going out of its way to make sure you know that’s a good thing and not a bad one.

𝗩𝗲𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗰𝘁:
No. Just no. This is not the same Adichie I remember.

[Karen · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was the first novel that I have read by this author.
I read a short story that she wrote and enjoyed it but to me this 416 page novel felt like 1200 pages.
It’s about three middle age Nigerian women during the covid pandemic who ponder their lives up until then, mostly their experiences with various romantic relationships..their lives have not panned out as far as marriage and motherhood goes..
This has criss crossing story lines, not much of it of interest to me.
This novel has a starred review from Kirkus and some really positive reviews here on Goodreads.. but I wish I had just dnf’d it!

Thank you to Netgalley and Knopf for the gifted copy!

[JustJJ · Rating 4 out of 5]

Blog | Instagram

Rating: 4 stars

‘Dream Count’ shines in its sharp, thought-provoking observations woven into the stories of four Black women.

Cover: 🌟🌟🌟🌟
Writing: 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
Storyline: 🌟🌟🌟🌟
Characters: 🌟🌟🌟🌟
Narration & Audio: 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

It didn't take long for the lush writing and seamless transitions to seize my attention and immerse me in the exploration of friendship, family, identity, and love at the heart of this novel. The countless insights and themes, such as misogyny, social class, and beauty standards, further elevated the stories of the four leading characters and resonated deeply with me. I also enjoyed the listening experience as Adichie, Sandra Okuboyejo, A’rese Emokpae, and Janina Edwards infused each journey with emotional depth and fitting accents, making the audiobook truly immersive.

"Our close friends are small glimpses into us"

We follow Chiamaka, a wealthy Nigerian travel writer and hopeless romantic, as she reflects on past loves, adventures, and regrets during the COVID-19 lockdowns. Zikora, her successful best friend, faces heartbreak and grows closer to the person she least expected. Kadiatou, Chiamaka’s housekeeper, endures hardships that make her journey the most compelling. Then there's Omelogor, my personal favourite and Chiamaka's ambitious and bold cousin. Her story raises questions about success, happiness, self-worth and social norms.

"If our daughters do not know how beautiful they are, just as they are, then surely we have failed."

These four women stood out as fully realized characters, distinct in their complexities and imperfections. While I appreciated the diverse perspectives provided, I felt the novel stretched a bit long and could have done with one fewer point of view (POV). I also wished for a stronger thread that interconnected the four stories.


See my other review for Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie:
- We Should All Be Feminists


You can also find more of my thoughts and discussion questions on my blog!

[Ruben · Rating 2 out of 5]

Oh dear, this didn't work for me at all...It felt like an uneven debut novel but peppered with the arrogance of an arrived writer.

And the start was so promising...

We get four stories of four different women who essentially choose men badly. The men are - without exception - awful and ignorant, one-dimensional stereotypes. I counted a psychological abuser, an alcoholic, a criminal, a physical abuser, an adulterer, a liar and more. Perhaps for balance there could have been one normal guy? All of them of course allergic to any notion of a shared future, let alone marriage or children.

It was a bit hard to believe these strong, intelligent and independent women - 3 out of 4 really good characters - somehow become completely powerless, passive and irrational as soon as men enter the picture...which I am sure it was not Ngozi Adichie's intention.

I felt a lot of anger in the book, no humour to lighten things up a bit, and a lot of pedantic little lectures. Even if it makes important points, some of which we know from We Should All Be Feminists, this was not an effective way of communicating them. The story also never really comes together.

I appreciated the author's thoughtful note at the end, but it made me wish she had limited herself to the story of Kadiatou in a 150-page novella or so.

[Ron Charles · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gratefully, Adichie is back to fiction with “Dream Count,” a rich, complicated book that spans continents and classes. The story jets between America and Nigeria while rotating, section by section, through the experiences of four Black women. Moving through a comedy of manners and a hall of horrors, their stories overlap and intersect in ways that suggest the vast matrix of the African diaspora.

Chiamaka — known as Chia — opens the novel by saying, “I have always longed to be known, truly known, by another human being.” The plaintive vulnerability of that confession vibrates through the next 400 pages as we meet Chia’s female friends, relatives and servants. Despite their diverse stations, in lives stretched more than 5,000 miles around the globe, they all crave the kind of intimacy that eludes them. There may be many stories here, but every single one contends with the unreliability, the unavailability and even the violence of men. That theme could be limiting or redundant, too familiar to be engaging, but the extraordinary sympathy of Adichie’s storytelling makes “Dream Count” deeply compelling.

Chia is the daughter of a wealthy man, which gives her the freedom to pursue an interest in travel writing long before she has any actual assignments. But the covid pandemic has snuffed out that career — along with all other activities. Cocooned in her parents’ house in Maryland, Chia Zooms with friends and family. “Every morning,” she laments, “I was hesitant to rise, because to get out of bed was to approach again the possibility of sorrow.”

Chia’s mother warns her that at 44, she’s running out of time. “I did not have a husband and I did not have a child,” she admits wryly, “a calamity more confounding because it was not for lack of suitors.” Still, overwhelmed with paranoia and regret, Chia begins Googling past boyfriends, what a friend calls her “body count” but Chia thinks of as her “dream count.” It’s an exercise that satisfies her curiosity — and ours — even as it opens up old wounds. There’s....

To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/books/...

[EveStar91 · Rating 3 out of 5]

I have always longed to be known, truly known, by another human being. Sometimes we live for years with yearnings that we cannot name. Until a crack appears in the sky and widens and reveals us to ourselves, as the pandemic did, because it was during lockdown that I began to sift through my life and give names to things long unnamed.

Four women, each strong and independent in their own way, struggle against the double, or indeed quadruple standards of societal expectations; reaching for what they want, what they deserve, but devastated by how much of themselves they have to suppress in its pursuit.

Chia loved the idea of love, so eagerly, so unwisely.

There is a lot that worked in Dream Count, starting with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's brilliant writing that can evoke resonant emotions in people cultures and continents away. The novel isn't a linear time story, but is more a collection of formative experiences and occurrences in the lives of the four women, like vignettes showcasing how they were struck with each occurrence. This construction works to highlight the themes of sexism, immigrant injustices and financial status explored, among other things. Adichie's understanding of people and societies shines through in every vignette.

She [Zikora] relates with women only through the pain caused them by men. That I do not trade in stories of my love-inflicted wounds is my [Omelogor] unforgivable failing.

The whole book somehow disappointingly adds up to less than the sum of the parts - the character sketches, the writing and world-building, the premise as well as the themes explored. Chia, Zikora and Omelogor are such clever, strong, independent and resourceful women, but seem to give away too much control to other people and institutions over too many years, or suppressed themselves too much. A lot of the petty bickering/ internal judgement when talking to each other didn't help. They didn't seem to have to grown or changed much over the years, though they were in shock over a few events, however difficult this was to judge as the timelines jumped around a bit.

Zikora felt cheered by this news, by the sense that misery was now being evenly spread. Omelogor crying? Omelogor could cry? Whatever America had done to her, God bless America.

Kadiatou can't be grouped with the other characters as she was based on a real person, or at least real events, but with a fictional back story. She suffered so much, her struggle to build a life in a new country overthrown suddenly, but even a case against the assaulter that was much discussed in public platforms does not lead to justice. Her response at the end to the case being dropped was markedly different to the public statements made at the time, anger and disappointment changed to relief and acceptance that do a disservice to the very real person's feelings and rights, no matter what the author's note says about reclamation. This added to the disappointment with the whole book.

There was a bone that birthed courage and Kadiatou believed she lacked that bone, or if she had it then it was feeble, soft and chewable like biscuit-bone.

Thanks to NetGalley and the Knopf, Pantheon, Vintage and Anchor Publishing Group for an ARC, all opinions in this review are honest and entirely mine.

🌟🌟🌟
[Half a star for the premise and the whole book; Half a star for the characters and their growth; Half a star for the plot and themes; 3/4 star for the world-building and societal description; 3/4 star for the writing - 3 stars in total.]

[Lisa · Rating 3 out of 5]

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's latest novel, Dream Count, is a mixed bag for me.

What works:

Strong female friendships

A vivid portrayal of modern Nigeria

An honest look at the female body

Asking the question of how much of a woman's dreams are influenced by societal norms

The prose

Themes of love, friendship, immigration, and making a life of one’s own

What needs strengthening:

Delve deeper to make this a novel of substance, for example the differing viewpoints on gender and power could have engendered discussion to challenge each woman's perspectives

Make clear why most of the men are portrayed on a sliding scale of badness. How does this serve the story?

Create American academics as fully realized individuals rather than as one-dimensional caricatures

I am saddened by all of the opportunities missed, ideas referenced and not explored, which could have made this novel an outstanding read. Adichie's novel Half of a Yellow Sun is a favorite. This one does not compare favorably.

Publication 2025

[Bonnie G. · Rating 3 out of 5]

5/23/25 Revised from a 4 to a 3 star. I wavered between a 3 and a 4 when I wrote the review. Then I read Girl, Woman, Other, which had a quite similar structure. That book's strength highlighted the flaws in this book and made it clear it falls on the lower side. It is not a bad book, but it easily could have been a much better one.
__________________________________________

This is a hard one for me. I will start with the positive. It is no surprise that Adichie is a spectacular writer. This is a smooth, well-crafted read, and I enjoyed the experience for the most part. Adichie brings us four women whose lives are connected. Their stories are told separately, but each story illuminates the other stories because if four people experience a thing, there are four unique experiences. Other than scientific facts (and even those are not absolute) objective absolute truth is a lie.

Each of the women in the book is fascinating and mostly well-drawn. I found all of the women relatable. That said, I also found all of the women were either victims or victimizers. The men were only victimizers; if the men were negatively impacted by the small cruelties of the women, that was not covered here. Everything here felt unrealistically gendered -- this is how women experience the world, this is how men experience the world. I wouldn't care about it being unfair if I thought it was an honest portrayal of the tension between defying the patriarchy and giving in to things we want, that make us feel whole, but which reinforce patriarchal structures. That is a real tension, but rather than present and explore questions raised by this tension, Adichie told us how to feel about things. For example, apparently any exploration of the ways in which pain and pleasure enhance one another in sex is simply women bowing to the desires men get from viewing porn made by men who hate women. Who knew? Her takedown of liberal arts education's brand of mannered yet radical feminism (this is in America) is another place where she leaves no room for exploration or improvement, offering just a raging raze the building tirade. (There is a lot of loathing for America, which at the moment felt pretty good, but which is also too absolutist and over-simplified, and that diminishes its power.)

I could not decide whether this was a 3 or a 4 star. For me a really good novel raises questions and makes me think. It does not tell me how to feel. That is true even when the things I am being told align significantly with my own values. But then this book also showed me a subtle and beautiful look at family bonds, the good and the bad, about friendship, and about secondary people in our lives whom we are connected to through others, but who impact the way we experience the world. That was pretty great. This did a lot of good things, and it did it with a lot of pretty writing. I would rate this a 3.5 if that were possible.

One additional note. There has been a lot of talk about Adichie being anti-trans which I think is crap. Adichie has done much to help the LGBTQ+ communities in Nigeria where LGBTQ+ people are, heartbreakingly, committing capital crimes simply by living their lives. She commented that trans-women had not grown up with the same strictures as people raised as girls and so their experience of being female differs from that of biological females. That is not anti-trans. That is as close as something can be to objective truth. The whole bruhaha was started by Akwaeke Emezi, a writer i think is spectacularly overrated, but whether or not you like their work is an attention whore. They studied under Adichie and used her name in their marketing materials for their first book. Adichie asked for her name to be removed from Emezi's marketing material, and Emezi started shrieking about how it was because Adichie was anti-trans. It is all very middle-school. When I talk in my review about how Adichie leans too hard into gender stereotypes, I am not in any way supporting Amezi's meanness or self-aggrandizing slurs.

Oops, make that two additional notes: All of the narrators of the audiobook (including the author) were excellent!

[Summer · Rating 5 out of 5]

Chimamanda’s writing is like an exquisitely wrapped gift that as you unwrap, you get more and more surprised by the beauty of it. Her stunning prose turned the mundaneness of everyday life into a work of art.

Dream Count is everything that I as a reader, love about reading. The four women this story is centered around are ones that are truly unforgettable. This book is one of those that you savor as you go and even at 416 pages, I found myself not ready to put down at the end. I predict this timely novel to be nominated and to win many literary awards!

I could go on for several more paragraphs about how much I loved Dream Count but I think you get the message and im sure you can also tell that I will be recommending it to everyone!

I alternated between reading the book myself and listening to the audiobook. The audiobook is narrated by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Sandra Okuboyejo, A'rese Emokpae, and Janina Edwards. If you decide to pick this one up, I highly recommend this format!

Dream Count by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was published on March 4 so it's available now. Many thanks to Penguin Random House Audio for the gifted copy!

[eva ₊˚⊹♡ · Rating 2 out of 5]

Oh shame… This was the letdown of the century.
I started reading this with the highest expectations because Adichie was one of my earliest introductions to African literature by women. I haven't read her work in a long time, apart from her feminist manifestos, which were very mediocre, and her novella, “Zikora,” which was disappointing, to say the least. That should have been the first sign. Apart from the social commentary I felt to be dull, the “Africanness” of the novel was also very played out - “Don’t eat at your auntie’s house,” jollof rice, and “where is your husband” isms. Bring something fresher.

I first scrunched my face reading this when I noticed how peppered the narrative was with the airs of the typical upper-class African prejudices. I think the intention was for us to sympathize with the rich, educated, and beautiful who were made to feel “ashamed” of their wealthy background by “woke liberals” and their “contradictions.” Adichie was very heavy-handed in portraying the “woke” individuals' conversations in a purposefully insufferable way as opposed to all of the main characters’ “superior” moderateness. Anyway.

It was impossible not to be prickled by Adichie’s personal opinions and politics that we can derive from said opinions. Let’s first examine the following quotes and their clear dog whistles: “Thick false lashes sprouted from the nurse's upper lids like black feathers, and they made her eyes look heavy-lidded, half-closed, as though she were not as alert as she should be for this job.” She writes, “Zikora tensed at the thought of being poked and prodded again. The nurse's nails must be sharp talons, to match those ridiculous lashes, and who was to say they wouldn't pierce the gloves and injure her cervix or whatever they were checking?” The final nail in the coffin was, “Maybe the nurse was thinking her baby's father should be here instead of her cold mother, which would show some nerve, because this nurse probably had three children with different absent men, unmannered children she screamed at while she stuck on those lashes in some cramped and overheated apartment in Baltimore.” That made me look at Adichie differently, as this narrative is not challenged. To me, this read as anti-Blackness towards Black Americans. (On top of all the characters having such a massive disdain for America but loving the “sophisticatedness” of London, go figure).

Another example that almost made me gasp was the following quote, “She thought it a plebeian status symbol, this obsession with international travel that Black Americans had, like people from a bush village boasting about city trips. Can I come through? Many Black men asked after a few text messages. Can I come through now? How did they know she wouldn't be waiting with a sharpened knife or a poisoned drink?” Shortly after, “She tried a Christian dating site but it felt ghostly, with too few men, and even fewer Black men. The only man she matched with looked like the man in the news who had just killed two women and put them in trash bags.“ Hello?????

Not to mention that the men that these very accomplished women threw themselves after were incredibly pathetic. Granted, that happens in real life often. However, they didn’t even have a believable ounce of appeal, charm, or redeemable qualities.

I reached a point midway through my read where I had to start googling to learn more about Adichie. That point when you read some of a writer’s work, you start to feel like perhaps our values and perspectives don't align because alarm bells are going off in your mind. When your mind goes, am I tripping, or was that an insane thing to say? That’s when I came across some statements Adichie made that I found concerning. But I’ll let you do your digging. I also came across the Vulture article by Sanjena Sathian, which almost perfectly summed up my opinion of this novel. I’ve quoted below snippets of the article that sum up how I feel about this novel: “…is a blandly regressive take on progressive Americans, who, in these pages, are two-dimensional caricatures sketched from conservative talking points rather than the fully formed characters one expects to encounter in literary fiction.”

“None of Adichie's portrayals of men are necessarily incorrect, but Dream Count is so uncritically hung up on its men that it neglects its women. The man-fixation is especially odd in light of pleas Adichie has made in her own work..”

“Adichie's writing here isn't merely uncurious — the prose is also often bad.”

[Brina · Rating 4 out of 5]

I cannot believe that I reached the penultimate day of women’s history month 2025. At the beginning of the month I noted that I might not be able to read women exclusively this year having no concrete plans. After reading a number of memoirs at the beginning of the month I realized that I would be shortchanging myself and women if I did not stick to my original plans. Yes, I gravitate toward sports and history writing. A library pile is currently staring at me, and I am getting all big eyed, excited to read through the stack; however, that is for another day. I read Americanah eight years ago when I engaged in a reading women of color from around the world project. Women writers I had never heard of ended up on my reading list that year, but Americanah stood out to me as a story of what happens when immigration to the United States is not streets paved with gold and a dollar on every tree and a chance to better oneself. The protagonist ended up returning to Nigeria and living happily ever after with her first lover. Eight years have passed, and the author has written odes to both feminism and grief and has become a sought after speaker in the literary community. She has also experienced life to know that everything is not a happy ending even though this reader wishes it were. To finish my reading for women’s history month 2025, I selected Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s new novel Dream Count, a story of women, mothers and daughters, and how they persevere in their lives.

During the first year of Covid, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie lost both of her parents in close succession. Granted she has reached a point in her life where loss happens, but not in this capacity, and so close together is not fathomable even in those times. It was either in a review that I read or in a section of the book that stated that the disease is killing off a generation too soon. Needless to say I do not want to relieve that year again over and done with. In lieu of a novel, she wrote notes on grief while mourning her father and then published a lovely children’s book under a pseudonym. The kernel of an idea for this novel, her first in ten years, occurred while grieving her mother. The concept is four interlocking stories of women and their relationships with their mothers and how it effects their life choices. Each character receives their due in a section of the book; yet, the other three women are present, acting as sounding boards for those life choices that do not perpetuate the so called American dream. One character goes so far to say that Americans are provincial in thinking that the whole world revolves around them when really it does not. Chimamanda splits her life between the United States and Nigeria. This book is written from the perspective of someone who has a foot in both worlds, giving way to multi layered characters in various stages of grief.

In Nigeria the dream of all mothers is for their children marry well, preferably someone from the same station in life with similar values, so as not to taint the family’s legacy. Older generations held sway to these values, many marrying cousins to keep family lines pure. Not so the generation born after the Biafra war, which Chimananda writes of in her first novel, which gave way to young people attending university in the UK and United States, never to return. The first protagonist we meet is Chiamaka (Chia) who has lived in the United States since university. She is nearing her mid forties and still single, giving her parents, especially her mother, a reason to grieve. The family comes from money, and the mother thinks that it allows her to control her middle aged daughter’s life, but not so fast. We discover that Chia is a novelist who has taken a time out to travel the globe and write for magazines as a freelancer. Her father sponsors this endeavor, much to her mother’s chagrin, only because she wants her daughter to marry and have children before it is too late. Love has not come easy, with Chia reminiscing of past lovers during lockdown in what she refers to as her dream count. Some of these men had potential, two standing out to me, and one being downright awful; yet, none of them allowed Chia to love for love’s sake. In her mind, marriage is about love, not convenience, and she is convinced that the moment of true love might never occur for her. She compensates for not being married by forging strong relationships with other single women, each of whom is not married for a myriad of reasons. In these female friendships, one wonders if marriage is essential for true happiness. It does give pause for thought in this female centric novel.

Zikora is raising her son Chidera as a single mother because her ex-lover balked at fatherhood. A high powered attorney with means, she manages to get by although it is apparent that she distrusts all men and treats most of them with malice. Readers find out that her mother has also suffered a difficult relationship with her father due to her inability to bare children. Although she has always had a strained relationship, she drops everything to move in with her daughter at the time of impending birth. Zikora finds new respect for her mother that she never though she had. Meanwhile, the foil for Zikora is Omelogor, Chia’s cousin. The two women tolerate each other, with Chia being the middle ground that holds them together. Omelogor has chosen to remain in Nigeria. She is most definitely a successful businesswoman but has characteristics often associated with men. As she climbs the corporate ladder of success, she rarely has the time for romance, each fling ending after a few months. While she lives life as the hostess with the mostest in Abuja, it is her mother and aunts who wonder if she is happy and ask her if she would consider adopting a child. For many people, children are one’s ultimate legacy, but both Omelogor and Chiamaka show how one can be happy and successful outside of the traditional definition of a nuclear family. It is up to their mothers to accept them as they are.

While Chiamaka is the glue who perpetuates the relationships in this novel, the star is Kadiatou who has immigrated from Guinea in search of a better life for her daughter Binta. Of the four women, it is Kadiatou who clings to her African values while also pampering the other women with African food and love in their time of need. It is Kadiatou who received asylum along with her lover Amadou only to find this love evaporate in the United States. While working as a maid in a stately Washington hotel, she encounters Chia, who hires her as a personal caretaker, the relationship becoming one of friends and Chia acts as a fun aunt for Binta, the one character in the book who is achieving the American dream to the fullest. Binta was Kadiatou’s impetus for immigrating; with no children, she would have been happy staying in Africa. It is Kadiatou who experiences abuse followed by racial discrimination due to her inability to grasp English. Chia and Zikora come to her aid in this time of need because that is what friends do. Chimamanda notes that she crafted the character of Kadiatou based on a maid named Nafissatou Diallo who suffered abuse at the hands of a wealthy hotel guest in 2011. In real life, the maid’s union galvanized around Nafissatou whereas online posters believed the guest due to his ability to hire top attorneys and shape the narrative. The same is true for Kadiatou, her saga appearing as close to real life as any event in the novel. It is her female friends who support her both emotionally and financially during this time, all four women shaking their heads at the American perspective of justice, all the while looking out for each other’s well being.

I have noticed writers plunging into their craft as a means of expressing grief. Chimananda notes that her mother would have loved the character Kadiatou, who is the woman with whom most readers would choose to empathize. I tend to read other reviews prior to crafting my own, and one item that stood out is that this female centric novel is told from the perspective of men. Is it, though? Yes, all four of the protagonists experience levels of grief with men in terms of marriage or lovers breaking apart. The one man who relates to women best happens to be gay. But is the novel told through the eyes of men? I found this to be a powerful novel told from the point of view of four successful women who are chasing their own dreams apart from what their mothers desired for them. Even though the four women have yet to experience an epiphany in terms of true love, I would not say that this book is told from the eyes of men. It happens that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is married with children but has experienced life enough to craft well drawn out characters from distinct stations of life than her own. Dream Count ended up exceeding my expectations, only because I did not know what to expect after a ten year gap in novels. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is regarded by many as a top novelist of this generation. Dream Count cements that status. Thus concludes women’s history month 2025. It has been both enriching and rewarding.

4.5 stars

[Denise Ruttan · Rating 3 out of 5]

I feel terrible leaving this review because I've long admired this author's writing although not always her complicated public persona. This may be the case of being disappointed after 10 years of waiting. I am clearly the odd one out given all these wonderful reviews, this is just a me issue and a personal preference thing.

This book was well written, emotional and complicated, and I was drawn to it because I am intrigued by women's fiction about complicated relationships and I love Nigerian fiction. The prose was clearly beautiful.

My struggle was with the characters. This is an interconnected character study of four women, Chia the dreamy travel writer, Zikora the lawyer whose partner abandons her when she becomes pregnant, Omelogor the brash and perpetually single corrupt banker who also gives grants to small businesses, and Kadi, Chia's maid. The stories are interconnected by Kadi's sexual assault in the hotel where she worked and how it affected all their lives, as well as the onset of the pandemic, which made Chia reflect on her regrets, namely her body count of her ex lovers, which the hopeless romantic in her renames a dream count.

My main issue with this story was that I really hated all four women and this made it a struggle to care about what happened to them because the story was so character-driven without much plot. I found the three rich women to be boring and insipid rich people who were self-absorbed and codependent on boring men who treated them poorly. Kadi's story was more interesting but even her life revolved around men. I thought this author was a feminist and this book's theme was basically all men are bad and centering men. I wanted these women to have more agency in their own lives. Omelogor was the most independent but even her life was defined by the absence of men.

I'm sure this book will appeal to a wide audience but it was a real struggle for me to get through and to care about any of the characters. I fear it may send me into a reading slump. I think I had way too high of expectations for the story I got and I very much was not the right audience for this. The author has also taken a rightward turn in her personal life and I saw that bleed through in the characters' motivations and belief systems. I am okay with unlikable characters with different political beliefs than me but I just found these characters so boring that I found this a sluggish read and it took me forever to get through.

I think this is very much a me problem though and this will nevertheless appeal to a lot of readers.

Thank you to Netgalley and the publisher for the advance review copy. I am leaving this review voluntarily.

[Julie · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dream Count, the long-awaited followup to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's gorgeous Americanah—can it be ten years already?—is an interconnected set of individual stories of four women that soars in some aspects and sinks in others.

Adichie is a dreamy writer. Her prose is warm-blooded, breezy, rich and soulful. She imbues this same natural whole-heartedness into her characters, which are complicated, maddening, vital, funny, and empathetic. But in the case of Dream Count, the characters' plights and whims felt like a dream that is heavy on zany and complicated details but absent of purpose, resolution and in some cases, sense.

The story is split between four protagonists, beginning and ending with Chiamaka, a beautiful, pampered Nigerian who becomes a U.S.-based travel writer for lack of anything more compelling to do. Chia compulsively falls in and out of relationships but maintains a puppy-dog's earnestness for love. There's Chia's friend Zikora, a high-powered attorney in D.C. who is abandoned by her baby's father the same day she reveals she's pregnant; and Chia's cousin Omelogor, a mildly corrupt financial executive who gives up a sumptuous but isolated existence in Nigeria to become a graduate student in the States, working on a dissertation about the evils of pornography. These women are connected by nationality, family and friendship, with Chiamaka as their good-natured nucleus.

The fourth woman is Kadiatou, a hotel maid from Guinea. Her story becomes the novel's moral compass. It's a plight Adichie modeled after the true story of Nafissatou Diallo, an immigrant hotel housekeeper who accused Dominique Strauss Kahn, head executive of the International Monetary Fund, of attempted rape and sexual assault in 2011. Her case epitomized the courage of a poor woman of color standing up to a powerful, wealthy White man and the cultural forces that would work to stamp her back down.

Dream Count explores many of the same themes as the Americanah, including the tensions between Black immigrants and Black Americans; modern women navigating sex, love, and self; the parody-ripe American intellectual elite and Nigerian bourgeoisie. What's lacking is any real sense that these women, beyond the beleaguered Kadiatou, offer any substantive statement on the contemporary social contract. Each is wealthy, beautiful, successful, but bored, lonely, forever falling for men who either use and reject them or are ideal but soundly rejected for being too perfect. It becomes a tedious tale of manners that, although lushly readable, entertaining, and full-throated, left this reader feeling half-empty and a little weary.

[Akankshya (catching up!) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dream Count is Adichie's first fiction book published in a decade, and needless to say, the book community is elated. I had been eagerly awaiting to read this book for so long, and the best thing was that it was exactly as beautiful as I thought it would be. Adichie is a proficient writer, and her prose is readably profound, flowing smoothly through digressions, and the emotional core of this story engrossed me thoroughly.

This story is about four women: Chiamaka, Zikora, Kadiatou, and Omelogor, who are unlikely friends in many ways, and the way they navigate the disconnect between their expectations from life and their realities. Each character is carved out meticulously by Adichie, their interconnected stories explored from different perspectives, their thoughts realistic and discrete. Every time I believed to had understood a character, Adichie revealed another layer, and I grappled with how to feel about them. I ended this book with a lot of thoughts, a lot of feelings, and a lot of respect for Adichie's raw talent for writing.

Reminiscence and yearning lie at the core of this book. All of the women are in their early to older forties, looking back on their lives, and pondering what they could have done differently. Very little in the name of plot appears, and when it does, it is visceral and poignant, beyond infuriating. For a book that is so feminist and that centers women and their lives, it revolves quite a bit around men. Then again, it makes sense in the context of the meaning behind the name of this book. The central question that runs through this novel is What is it to be truly known?

Adichie writes in her author's note, Novels are never really about what they are about, as she reveals what really led her to write this narrative, and end it as she did. So much is packed and explored in this novel—race, belonging, class issues, societal norms, immigration, sexism, corruption, morality, and choice. The characters, with all their differences, embody different belief systems that clash sometimes, and turning the lens upon them through each other's gazes as well as tertiary characters is an innovative written analysis of coexistence.

I'm not even sure who to recommend this to. The writing gets ornate to the point of flowery, the setting seems more haphazard than intentional, and you don't really get a resolution or tension in the story so much as endless introspection. I fell in love with the book, so I'd still herald this as an absolute work of art, and I'd say pick this up if you want a story with a deep emotive core, truly realistic (unlikable) characters, and masterful writing.

Thanks to Netgalley and Knopf, Pantheon, Vintage, and Anchor publishing for a copy of the ARC in exchange for an honest review!

[Anita Pomerantz · Rating 3 out of 5]

Well,this isn't an easy book to rate. The novel follows four Nigerian women, all from different backgrounds in terms of wealth and family structure: Chia, Zikora, Kadiatou, and Omelogor. As the reader, we see each woman through a different lens. We observe beautiful (and weathly) Chia's search for a man. Attorney Zikora grapples with her impending single motherhood. Kadiatou must cope with a terrible crime committed against her by a high status guest at the hotel where she works as a maid. Omelogor's story is the most nuanced as she is a banker operating in a corrupt environment.

The characters are interesting, their dialogue is engaging, and I enjoyed getting to know each of them; however, the plotting seems haphazard at best. The characters are really just an excuse for social commentary on feminist issues. The commentary is done with a very soft touch, which I love. There's little clobbering you over the head with the issues at hand. But somehow, the narrative arc feels way off. It didn't help that I thought Omelogor's story - the final section - was the most drawn out and the least interesting to me personally. I started off thinking the book would be a 5. And then a 4. And ultimately a 3 plus. The momentum just seems to fall by the wayside and the ending is a bit of just a thud.

None of this is to say I wouldn't run right out and read Adichie's next book. There's something about her style that I did love. But somehow, I feel like maybe another editor would make all the difference.

[Alya · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thoughts
I went into this not realising it'll be this emotionally layered and with such depth, I enjoy women's fiction so this was also a plus -- it's split into 4 parts follows Chiamaka, a Nigerian writer in the U.S. during the COVID-19 lockdown, as she reflects on her past relationships and emotional growth. Her story connects with three other women: Zikora, a single mother facing heartbreak; Omelogor, a bold academic questioning her identity; and Kadiatou, a housekeeper from Guinea who survives a traumatic assault. Set between Nigeria and America, if you enjoy books that explore resilience, strength, love and trauma I highly recommend this read!

[Gumble's Yard - Golden Reviewer · Rating 4 out of 5]

What in the cultural genetics of Americans makes them think they can decide for the rest of the world how they should think? I never knew that there existed in this world a class of people who feel so securely entitled to the minds of other people.

Longlisted for the 2026 Dublin Literary Award
Finalist for the 2025 Orwell Prize
Longlisted for the 2025 Women’s Prize for Fiction.

The first novel for 12 years since the author’s Americanah which was shortlisted for the Women’s Prize 2014 – ten years after her debut novel “Purple Hibiscus” was shortlisted. Her second novel “Half of a Yellow Sun” won the Women’s Prize winner in 2017, was then voted the ‘Best of the Best’ of the winners of the second decade of the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction, as chosen by the Chairs of judges of the past ten years – and then “Winner of Winner’s” by a public vote on the 25th anniversary of the prize in 2020.

So it is on one level a surprise that this book (not just due to the author’s prize pedigree but also as it is more ambitious and literary than almost all of the rest of the list) was not shortlisted for the 2025 prize, especially given a weak longlist and weaker shortlist.

What is less clear is if that is just further evidence of the judges’ tastes (and the judging criteria with its emphasis on accessibility) differing from my own (and the prize’s past); or whether it was more a political decision based, partly ironically although not entirely coincidentally, on exactly the same Western-liberal-values-must-be-Universal-values mindset that the author satirises rather too heavy handily in the book’s fourth section; or if it simply reflects some of the flaws of the novel which I set out below.

This pandemic-based novel, one the author has described as an unconscious tribute to her own mother) has four protagonists:

Chiamaka a US based, Nigerian born writer with extremely rich parents (her father has a “net worth” than can be Googled) whose potential-lifetime-partner version of “body count” gives the novel and its title and who also is the common thread between the characters as well as I think the strongest of all the characters by some distance, feeling less manufactured than the rest, capturing well the sense of drift and disengagement of the pandemic as well as the family/societal pressures to marry and have children. This part of the book has been criticised for being almost in counterpoint to the author’s Beyonce sampled “We Should All Be Feminists” TEDx-Talk but is in my views simply an honest reflection of exactly what Adiche describes in the sampled verse;

Zikora her best friend – a US based lawyer whose role in the story was for me the least clear – other than to give legal advice – and whose section was the least memorable other than for her single motherhood towards the end of the novel;

Omelogor her closest cousin in Nigeria – a shrewd, ruthless and ambitious banker who becomes hugely successful assisting with money laundering and other assistance to politicians before a change of heart (one which only occurs after she has become very wealthy through an IPO) leads her first to start skimming off cash to distribute to female Nigerian-village micro-entrepreneurs under her Robyn Hood organisation before then quitting to study Pornography (and how it distorts sexual relationships and education) in the US – a change of scene which seems more designed to give the author her chance to lampoon the Liberal Arts establishment. And somewhere in all of that she writes an advice column for “Dear Men” on women and relationships;

Kadiatou her Guinean housekeeper in the US – very closely modelled on Nafissatou Diallo, victim of assault by Dominque Strauss-Kahn. I found the juxtaposition of this story with the other three equally jarring as the author’s decision to own the story (and the slightly-happier ending she adds – with Kadiatou relieved charges are dropped as she was dreading testifying, a little artificial).

The professor was looking down at her notes, tapping her iPad pen on the desk, like a biased referee pretending to be fair. It wasn't even that they felt offended; it was that offended was the only thing they felt. Perfect righteous American liberals. As long as you board their ideology train, your evilness will be overlooked. Champion an approved cause and you win the right to be cruel. .

[Catherine]

Review from last summer when I found out this book was happening:

OH MY GOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHH


Review after reading it:

There is a reason why I was so excited to read Adichie’s first novel in twelve years, nine of which I spent waiting, desperate, trying to be patient, while she published essays and a children’s book, traveled the world, engaged in speaking events, cared for her family, endured COVID, and lost both of her parents suddenly in quick succession.

The scalpel-like straightforwardness of her sentences always feels so refreshing and powerful to me. This book, like her others, is now underlined and dog-eared. If these women walked into my house or texted me to get coffee, I wouldn’t be surprised. They, like so many of her characters, feel so real, even in the ways our dreams differ. Omelegor, predictably, resonated with me, articulating some parts of myself back to me in ways that were life-giving.

[Erin · Rating 5 out of 5]

ARC for review. To be published March 4, 2025.

5 stars

4.5 stars

New book by the author of AMERICANAH. Four Nigerian women reach major turning points in their lives in this look at love, power and sisterhood. Chiamaka is a travel writer who was raised in wealth and is living in the U.S. During the pandemic she recalls her past lovers and the ending of each relationship.

Zikora is Chiamaka’s best friend. She is a lawyer who has always been a success, but she is betrayed by a man and she turns to her mother in a time of need. Omelogor is Chiamaka’s cousin and lives in Nigeria. She is a very successful banker and an anonymous do-gooder to alleviate some of the shame for the corruption in her work. Kadiatou is Chiamaka’s housekeeper and she is proud to be raising her teenage daughter in America. The book traces her life from childhood in Nigeria to present day when she’s faced with a situation where she might lose everything she’s worked so hard for.

Really loved this book, which offers a nuanced picture of Nigerian women. Omelogor resonated with me the most, and I think most women who read this will find they relate best to one of the four women. Highly recommended.

[Jill · Rating 5 out of 5]

The world has changed significantly since 2013, when Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie wrote Americanah, her breathtaking mosaic on all-things-racial. And we, who are now mired in false outrage and dissatisfaction, have changed with it.

In her afterward, the author says that “stories die and recede from collective memory mostly for not being told.” We must clearly and consistently see, interpret, and question the world. We must also look back on how we lived and identify what endures.

Some things will always remain: the hunger for enduring friendship and family connections, the mentality of scarcity even if we have enough, the struggle to reinvent ourselves, better understand our values and culture, and define ourselves as women (particularly Black women without that all-important MAN to give us societal respect.

Here we have four women: Chiamaka, a Nigerian travel writer who lives in America. She constantly adds to her body count – she calls them her dream count – of men who ultimately fall short of what she’s looking for. Her best friend Zikora, a lawyer, is similarly unlucky in the men she trusts. Omegolor, Chiamaka’s cousin, plays by man’s rules, and as a result, is wildly successful, and emotionally shut off. And then there is Kadiatou, who keeps house for Chiamaka and whose life is, in many ways, the emotional foundation of this novel.

It is tempting to try to surmise which of these characters is the pivot for all that happens. Does Adichie intend it to be the one whose tale opens and closes the book (the only character who is given two sections)? Is it the one who is the apparent spokeswoman for the current culture in Nigeria (not unlike Ifemelu in Americanah, who blogged articles such as “To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby, Omegolor pens a blog that begins “Dear Men” and tutors men on how to better understand their role). Is it the one who Adichie reveals, in her afterword, translates her own grief? Or is it Kadiatou, who grips the reader with the unfairness of life? I have my opinion, and I’ll leave it to others to decide. But I believe all four narratives are dependent on each other for the full scope to emerge.

The novel asks why we remember what we remember, and which reels from our past truly assert their vivid selves. As in her past works, Dream Count tackles what matters: our cultural, gender, socioeconomic, and racial divides, and the difficulty of maintaining our power when men set the rules. This novel – Adichie’s first in a decade – was well worth waiting for, and I thank Knopf and NetGalley for the privilege of being an early reviewer in exchange for an honest review.

[Karenina (Nina Ruthström) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Det här är en kollektivroman om svarta kvinnors liv i USA och Nigeria. En av de fyra protagonisterna är delvis baserad på en riktig person som blev utsatt för sexuellt våld av Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Den utredningen lades ner på ett sätt som vittnar om bristande rättssäkerhet och här ger författaren offret en sorts upprättelse. Det gör hon väldigt bra.

Adichie behärskar intersektionell feminism som ingen annan populärförfattare och det är värdefullt. Jag uppskattar samhällskritiken men önskar kanske lite mer gällande det estetiska, det skönlitterära, underhållningsvärdet. Jag kan förstå att vissa känner sig undervisade men jag tycker absolut hon håller sig på rätt sida av gränsen.

Som en röd tråd genom romanen går diskussionen om huruvida en människa på djupet kan bli förstådd av en annan människa med annat kön, klass, ras, ålder, kultur, sexualitet eller om det måste vara samma. Jag uppfattar slutsatsen som att bäst förstår en svart rik kvinna en annan svart rik kvinna. För tio år sedan hade jag rätt och slätt hållit med. Det gör jag inte längre. Som mamma tycker jag att pappan (till våra barn) som jag bor med, sover med och som jag delar föräldraskap med är den som alla gånger förstår mig bäst.

[Kyra ♡ ‧₊˚ · Rating 4 out of 5]

If count your blessings was a book 🔥🧡

Dream Count is a quietly powerful, deeply reflective novel about grief, friendship, womanhood, and the fragile architecture of the lives we imagine for ourselves.

The book follows four women, Chiamaka, Zikora, Omelogor, and Kadiatou—whose stories unfold in turn during the strange stillness of the pandemic. Chiamaka, a Nigerian travel writer stranded in the United States, reflects on the men she has loved and the lives she might have lived. Zikora, a successful lawyer, confronts heartbreak and the painful reshaping of her future. Omelogor navigates questions of morality, ambition, and justice after leaving a career in finance. And Kadiatou, Chiamaka’s housekeeper, finds herself at the center of a sensationalized sexual assault case that forces readers to reconsider the way society treats victims—especially those who don’t fit neatly into a “perfect victim” narrative.

What makes this novel so compelling is how Adichie uses these intertwined lives to explore grief—not just the grief of death or loss, but the quieter grief of unrealized dreams. The title itself feels like an invitation to reflect: how many dreams did we once have, and how many of them quietly fell away as life unfolded?

The book is also deeply interested in the relationships between mothers and daughters, the immigrant experience, and the ways culture, literature, and media shape how we see ourselves and others. It asks readers to think critically about the stories we consume and the narratives we choose to amplify.

Adichie’s writing is thoughtful and observant, full of moments that feel both intimate and universal. This is not a loud or dramatic novel—it’s one that lingers, gently asking you to sit with difficult truths while still holding onto hope. Ultimately, Dream Count is about learning to live with grief while still believing in the possibility of joy, love, and reinvention. It’s reflective, humane, and beautifully written—a novel that invites you to take stock of your own life and the dreams that have shaped it.

4 stars. This was a moving and thoughtful book that I’ll be thinking about for a while.