Americanah

“It’s complicated, but he is, and also to the extent that Clinton is benefiting because she’s a white woman,” Nathan said, leaning forward and blinking even more quickly. “If Clinton were a black woman, her star would not shine so brightly. If Obama were a white man, his star might or might not shine so brightly, because some white men have become president who had no business being president, but that doesn’t change the fact that Obama doesn’t have a lot of experience and people are excited by the idea of a black candidate who has a real chance.”

“Although if he wins, he will no longer be black, just as Oprah is no longer black, she’s Oprah,” Grace said. “So she can go where black people are loathed and be fine. He’ll no longer be black, he’ll just be Obama.”

“To the extent that Obama is benefiting, and that idea of benefiting is very problematic, by the way, but to the extent that he is, it’s not because he’s black, it’s because he’s a different kind of black,” Blaine said. “If Obama didn’t have a white mother and wasn’t raised by white grandparents and didn’t have Kenya and Indonesia and Hawaii and all of the stories that make him somehow a bit like everyone, if he was just a plain black guy from Georgia, it would be different. America will have made real progress when an ordinary black guy from Georgia becomes president, a black guy who got a C average in college.”

“I agree,” Nathan said. And it struck Ifemelu anew, how much everyone agreed. Their friends, like her and Blaine, were believers. True believers.

ON THE DAY Barack Obama became the nominee of the Democratic Party, Ifemelu and Blaine made love, for the first time in weeks, and Obama was there with them, like an unspoken prayer, a third emotional presence. She and Blaine drove hours to hear him speak, holding hands in a thick crowd, raising placards, CHANGE written on them in a bold white print. A black man nearby had hoisted his son onto his shoulders, and the son was laughing, his mouth full of milky teeth, one missing from the upper row. The father was looking up, and Ifemelu knew that he was stunned by his own faith, stunned to find himself believing in things he did not think he ever would. When the crowd exploded in applause, clapping and whistling, the man could not clap, because he was holding his son’s legs, and so he just smiled and smiled, his face suddenly young with joyfulness. Ifemelu watched him, and the other people around them, all glowing with a strange phosphorescence, all treading a single line of unbroken emotion. They believed. They truly believed. It often came to her as a sweet shock, the knowledge that there were so many people in the world who felt exactly as she and Blaine did about Barack Obama.

On some days their faith soared. On other days, they despaired.

“This is not good,” Blaine muttered as they went back and forth between different television channels, each showing the footage of Barack Obama’s pastor giving a sermon, and his words “God Damn America” seared their way into Ifemelu’s dreams.

SHE FIRST READ, on the Internet, the breaking news that Barack Obama would give a speech on race, in response to the footage of his pastor, and she sent a text to Blaine, who was teaching a class. His reply was simple: Yes! Later, watching the speech, seated between Blaine and Grace on their living room couch, Ifemelu wondered what Obama was truly thinking and what he would feel as he lay in bed that night, when all was quiet and empty. She imagined him, the boy who knew his grandmother was afraid of black men, now a man telling that story to the world to redeem himself. She felt a small sadness at this thought. As Obama spoke, compassionate and cadenced, American flags fluttering behind him, Blaine shifted, sighed, leaned back on the couch. Finally, Blaine said, “It’s immoral to equate black grievance and white fear like this. It’s just immoral.”

“This speech was not done to open up a conversation about race but actually to close it. He can win only if he avoids race. We all know that,” Grace said. “But the important thing is to get him into office first. The guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. At least now this pastor business is closed.”

Ifemelu, too, felt pragmatic about the speech, but Blaine took it personally. His faith cracked, and for a few days he lacked his bounce, coming back from his morning run without his usual sweaty high, walking around heavy-footed. It was Shan who unknowingly pulled him out of his slump.

“I have to go to the city for a few days to be with Shan,” he told Ifemelu. “Ovidio just called me. She’s not functioning.”

“She is not functioning?”

“A nervous breakdown. I dislike that expression, it has a very old wives’ tale vibe to it. But that’s what Ovidio called it. She’s been in bed for days. She’s not eating. She won’t stop crying.”

Ifemelu felt a flash of irritation; even this, it seemed to her, was yet another way for Shan to demand attention.

“She’s had a really hard time,” Blaine said. “The book not getting any attention and all.”

“I know,” Ifemelu said, and yet she could feel no real sympathy, which frightened her. Perhaps it was because she held Shan responsible, at some level, for the fight with Blaine, for not wielding her power over Blaine to let him know he was overreacting.

“She’ll be fine,” Ifemelu said. “She’s a strong person.”

Blaine looked at her with surprise. “Shan is one of the most fragile people in the world. She’s not strong, she’s never been. But she’s special.”

The last time Ifemelu had seen Shan, about a month ago, Shan had said, “I just knew you and Blaine would get back together.” Hers was the tone of a person talking about a beloved sibling who had returned to psychedelic drugs.

“Isn’t Obama exciting?” Ifemelu had asked, hoping that this would, at least, be something she and Shan could talk about without an underlying prick of pins.

“Oh, I’m not following this election,” Shan had said dismissively.

“Have you read his book?” Ifemelu asked.

“No.” Shan shrugged. “It would be good if somebody read my book.”

Ifemelu swallowed her words. It’s not about you. For once, it’s not about you.

“You should read Dreams from My Father. The other books are campaign documents,” Ifemelu said. “He’s the real deal.”

But Shan was not interested. She was talking about a panel she had done the week before, at a writers’ festival. “So they ask me who my favorite writers are. Of course I know they expected mostly black writers and no way am I going to tell them that Robert Hayden is the love of my life, which he is. So I didn’t mention anybody black or remotely of color or politically inclined or alive. And so I name, with insouciant aplomb, Turgenev and Trollope and Goethe, but so as not to be too indebted to dead white males because that would be a little too unoriginal, I added Selma Lagerlöf. And suddenly they don’t know what to ask me, because I’d thrown the script out the window.”

“That’s so funny,” Blaine said.

ON THE EVE of Election Day, Ifemelu lay sleepless in bed.

“You awake?” Blaine asked her.

“Yes.”

They held each other in the dark, saying nothing, their breathing regular until finally they drifted into a state of half sleep and half wakefulness. In the morning, they went to the high school; Blaine wanted to be one of the first to vote. Ifemelu watched the people already there, in line, waiting for the door to open, and she willed them all to vote for Obama. It felt to her like a bereavement, that she could not vote. Her application for citizenship had been approved but the oath-taking was still weeks away. She spent a restless morning, checking all the news sites, and when Blaine came back from class he asked her to turn off the computer and television so they could take a break, breathe deeply, eat the risotto he had made. They had barely finished eating before Ifemelu turned her computer back on. Just to make sure Barack Obama was alive and well. Blaine made virgin cocktails for their friends. Araminta arrived first, straight from the train station, holding two phones, checking for updates on both. Then Grace arrived, in her swishy silks, a golden scarf at her neck, saying, “Oh my God, I can’t breathe for nervousness!” Michael came with a bottle of prosecco. “I wish my mama was alive to see this day no matter what happens,” he said. Paula and Pee and Nathan arrived together, and soon they were all seated, on the couch and the dining chairs, eyes on the television, sipping tea and Blaine’s virgin cocktails and repeating the same things they had said before. If he wins Indiana and Pennsylvania, then that’s it. It’s looking good in Florida. The news from Iowa is conflicting.

“There’s a huge black voter turnout in Virginia, so it’s looking good,” Ifemelu said.

“Virginia is unlikely,” Nathan said.

“He doesn’t need Virginia,” Grace said, and then she screamed. “Oh my God, Pennsylvania!”

A graphic had flashed on the television screen, a photo of Barack Obama. He had won the states of Pennsylvania and Ohio.

“I don’t see how McCain can do this now,” Nathan said.

Paula was sitting next to Ifemelu a short while later when the flash of graphics appeared on the screen: Barack Obama had won the state of Virginia.