Another week, another book review!
After being completely obsessed with Zikora in 2024, I read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s short story over and over until the pages felt like my own memories. I was beyond excited for the full-length novel. I counted down the days. I refreshed my preorder like a ritual. This wasn't just a new book; it was a return to a world that had already cracked me open.
And at first, it cracked me open in a different way. I’ll be honest, I struggled. Adichie’s voice is unmistakable, always powerful, but she refuses to repeat herself. I came in holding the rhythm of Zikora, and this was a new rhythm. It took a minute for my heart to sync with it. But once I let go of what I thought this story should be, I realized something important: I wasn't just reading a book. I was being invited to listen.
Dream Count follows four women: Chiamaka (Zikora’s best friend), Zikora herself, Omelogor (Chiamaka’s cousin), and Kadiatou (Chiamaka’s help). Their lives brush and tangle. Still, each woman’s narrative stands fiercely on its own, a testament to love that haunts, careers that define and confine, personal traumas carved into silence, and the vast, echoing inner worlds we so often hide.
My heart settled most deeply with Chiamaka. Her life is not mine, but the way she navigates love—that aching, relentless longing, felt like looking into a mirror I’d avoided. Her vulnerability, her quiet self-reckoning, her growth… it wasn’t just engaging. It felt like a confession I was honored to witness.
Then there’s Omelogor. Oh my! Her humor, that chaotic, unique and brilliant energy. She burst off the page and commanded your attention. Reading her story was like being swept into a storm that was equal parts terrifying and hilarious. I’ve never met anyone like her, in life or in fiction.
But the thread that truly undid me was Kadiatou’s. A refugee fighting for a sliver of safety in the U.S., her fear was a living thing. The exploitation, the trauma, the sheer vulnerability of her position… Adichie writes these scenes with an unflinching honesty that doesn’t ask for your tears, but commands your witness. There were moments I had to set the book down and just breathe, the weight of her reality pressing against my chest.
In this novel, Adichie masterfully explores identity, belonging, and love in all its gloriously messy forms. She dissects the complexities of womanhood not as a single note, but as a chorus, sometimes quiet, sometimes deafening; some voices born of privilege, others of sheer survival; some rooted in confidence, others in a desperate, beautiful search.
She has this gift, you know? Of making you pause mid-sentence. Sometimes because a line is so painfully true it steals your breath. Sometimes because it’s so hilarious you laugh out loud alone in a quiet room. And sometimes because the beauty of the phrasing alone requires a moment of stillness. Even when treading familiar thematic ground, the perspectives here are so fresh, so specific, they cut deeper.
Honestly? I’m not sure any review can do this book justice. Dream Count is a layered, aching, and profoundly human reading experience. It settled in my bones.
If you love literary fiction by African women, if you crave character-driven stories that don’t offer easy answers, if you want something that will make you think, laugh, and maybe clutch the book to your chest just to feel closer to it. I absolutely, wholeheartedly recommend Dream Count.
Chimamanda never disappoints. She pours her heart onto the page, and this time, she pours out four whole hearts, sounding an echo you won’t soon forget.
That’s all for this week!
Until next time,
Natu Shimike ~ Kalaba 🌸
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