The 9mobile Prize for Literature (formerly the Etisalat Prize for Literature 2013–16) was created by Etisalat Nigeria in 2013, and is the first ever pan-African prize celebrating first-time African writers of published fiction books. Awarded annually, the prize aims to serve as a platform for the discovery of new creative talent out of the continent and invariably promote the burgeoning publishing industry in Africa. The winner receives a cash prize of £15,000 in addition to a fellowship at the University of East Anglia. The 9mobile Prize for Literature also aims to support publishers by purchasing 1000 copies of all shortlisted books, to be donated to various schools, book clubs and libraries across the African continent.
About the novel:
New York Times Notable Book :
Shortlisted for the 2017 Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction.
One of the Best Books of the Year: NPR, The Wall Street Journal, The Economist, Chicago Tribune, BuzzFeed, Entertainment Weekly, The New York Post, Southern Living, The Skimm Shortlisted for the Wellcome Book Prize and the 9mobile Prize for Literature Longlisted for the International Dylan Thomas Prize.
A 2017 BEA Buzz Panel Selection
A Belletrist Book-of-the-Month
A Sarah Jessica Parker Book Club Selection
"Ilesa, Nigeria. Ever since they first met and fell in love at university, Yejide and Akin have agreed: polygamy is not for them. But four years into their marriage—after consulting fertility doctors and healers, and trying strange teas and unlikely cures—Yejide is still not pregnant. She assumes she still has time—until her in-laws arrive on her doorstep with a young woman they introduce as Akin’s second wife. Furious, shocked, and livid with jealousy, Yejide knows the only way to save her marriage is to get pregnant. Which, finally, she does—but at a cost far greater than she could have dared to imagine. The unforgettable story of a marriage as seen through the eyes of both husband and wife, Stay With Me asks how much we can sacrifice for the sake of family. Review “Powerfully magnetic. . . . In the lineage of great works by Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. . . . A thoroughly contemporary—and deeply moving—portrait of a marriage.”
— The New York Times Book Review. “An absolute must-read and a story that will be shared for many decades to come.”
—Emma Roberts, Refinery29.
“[A] stunning literary work [that] serves as both astute political commentary and unfolding mystery.” —NPR “Scorching, gripping, ultimately lovely.”
—Margaret Atwood, Twitter. “Powerful storytelling. . . . The story is ancient, but Adebayo imbues it with a vibrant, contemporary spirit.” — San Francisco Chronicle.
“Wise and deeply humane. . . . A powerfully affecting tale of love, loyalty, and betrayal.”
—Sarah Jessica Parker.
“Stay With Me feels like a genre unto itself—a story that illustrates the necessity of hope and equality, but one that doesn’t water down the challenges of realizing them.”
— Vogue.
“A triumph—a complex, deeply felt exploration of love, marriage and family amid cultural and political upheaval.”
— Chicago Tribune.
“A debut that marks the beginning of what should be a stunning career.” —Goop.
“Gorgeous. . . . Filled with big-hearted feelings and all kinds of female strength.”
— Bustle.
“[A] phenomenal novel. . . . Beautiful. . . . A layered story of love, sacrifice and hope . . . Adebayo’s debut is undoubtedly one of the best reads of this year.”
— Essence.
“A kind of addictive African soap opera, set against the political chaos of Nigeria in the 1980s.”
— People.
“A gut-wrenching tale of how wanting a child can wreck a woman, a marriage and a community. . . . Adebayo is surely a writer to watch.” — The Economist.
“Forcefully affecting. . . . Adebayo’s compassionate chronicle of a fraught marriage speaks to broader national fears, making this family drama feel like an epic.”
— The Wall Street Journal. “Heartbreaking. . . . A story of complicated love teetering between tradition and modernity.”
— W Magazine.
“A work of intimate yet powerful—and even, at times, shocking —storytelling that will . . . make your world bigger.”
— Elle.
“A bright, big-hearted demonstration of female spirit, as well as the damage done by the boundlessness of male pride.”
— The Guardian.
“With lyrical prose, Adebayo explores how far a woman will go to save her marriage.” — Real Simple “Powerful.”
— BuzzFeed.
“A heartbreakingly beautiful story about love, marriage, and expectation.”
— Southern Living.
“Adebayo’s prose is a pleasure: immediate, unpretentious and flecked with whip-smart Nigerian-English dialogue.”
— The Sunday Times (London).
About the Author:
Ayobami Adebayo’s stories have appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies, and one was highly commended in the 2009 Commonwealth Short Story Competition. She holds BA and MA degrees in literature in English from Obafemi Awolowo University, Ife, and has worked as an editor for Saraba Magazine since 2009. Adebayo also has an MA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia, where she was awarded an international bursary for creative
writing. She has received fellowships and residencies from Ledig House, Sinthian Cultural Centre, Hedgebrook, Ox-Bow School of Art, Ebedi Hills and the Siena Art Institute. She was born in Lagos, Nigeria.
www.ayobamiadebayo.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PART ONE 1
JOS, DECEMBER 2008.
I must leave this city today and come to you. My bags are packed and the empty rooms remind me that I should have left a week ago. Musa, my driver, has slept at the security guard’s post every night since last Friday, waiting for me to wake him up at dawn so we can set out on time. But my bags still sit in the living room, gathering dust. I have given most of what I acquired here—furniture, electronic devices, even house fittings—to the stylists who worked in my salon. So, every night for a week now, I’ve tossed about on this bed without a television to shorten my insomniac hours. There’s a house waiting for me in Ife, right outside the university where you and I first met. I imagine it now, a house not unlike this one, its many rooms designed to nurture a big family: man, wife and many children. I was supposed to leave a day after my hair dryers were taken down. The plan was to spend a week setting up my new salon and furnishing the house. I wanted my new life in place before seeing you again. It’s not that I’ve become attached to this place. I will not miss the few friends I made, the people who do not know the woman I was before I came here, the men who over the years have thought they were in love with me. Once I leave, I probably won’t even remember the one who asked me to be his wife. Nobody here knows I’m still married to you. I only tell them a slice of the story: I was barren and my husband took another wife. No one has ever probed further, so I’ve never told them about my children. I have wanted to leave since the three corpers in the National Youth Service programme were killed. I decided to shut down my salon and the jewellery shop before I even knew what I would do next, before the invitation to your father’s funeral arrived like a map to show me the way. I have memorised the three young men’s names and I know what each one studied at the university. My Olamide would have been about their age; she too would just have been leaving university about now. When I read about them, I think of her. Akin, I often wonder if you think about her too. Although sleep stays away, every night I shut my eyes and pieces of the life I left behind come back to me. I see the batik pillowcases in our bedroom, our neighbours and your family which, for a misguided period, I thought was also mine. I see you. Tonight I see the bedside lamp you gave me a few weeks after we got married. I could not sleep in the dark and you had nightmares if we left the fluorescent lights on. That lamp was your solution. You bought it without telling me you’d come up with a compromise, without asking me if I wanted a lamp. And as I stroked its bronze base and admired the tinted glass panels that formed its shade, you asked me what I would take out of the building if our house was burning. I didn’t think about it before saying, Our baby, even though we did not have children yet. Something, you said, not someone. But you seemed a little hurt that, when I thought it was someone, I did not consider rescuing you. I drag myself out of bed and change out of my nightgown. I will not waste another minute. The questions you must answer, the ones I’ve choked on for over a decade, quicken my steps as I grab my handbag and go into the living room. There are seventeen bags here, ready to be carried into my car. I stare at the bags, recalling the contents of each one. If this house was on fire, what would I take? I have to think about this because the first thing that occurs to me is nothing. I choose the overnight bag I’d planned to bring with me for the funeral and a leather pouch filled with gold jewellery. Musa can bring the rest of the bags to me another time. This is it then—fifteen years here and, though my house is not on fire, all I’m taking is a bag of gold and a change of clothes. The things that matter are inside me, locked up below my breast as though in a grave, a place of permanence, my coffin-like treasure chest. I step outside. The air is freezing and the black sky is turning purple in the horizon as the sun ascends. Musa is leaning against the car, cleaning his teeth with a stick. He spits into a cup as I approach and puts the chewing stick in his breast pocket. He opens the car door, we exchange greetings and I climb into the back seat. Musa switches on the car radio and searches for stations. He settles for one that is starting the day’s broadcast with a recording of the national anthem. The security guard waves goodbye as we drive out of the compound. The road stretches before us, shrouded in a darkness transitioning into dawn as it leads me back to you.
No comments:
Post a Comment