The danger of a single story | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
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The danger of a single story | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I’m a storyteller. And I would like to tell you
a few personal stories about what I like to call
“the danger of the single story.” I grew up on a university campus
in eastern Nigeria. My mother says that I started
reading at the age of two, although I think four
is probably close to the truth. So I was an early reader, and what I read were British
and American children’s books. I was also an early writer, and when I began to write,
at about the age of seven, stories in pencil
with crayon illustrations that my poor mother was obligated to read, I wrote exactly the kinds
of stories I was reading: All my characters were
white and blue-eyed, they played in the snow, they ate apples, (Laughter) and they talked a lot about the weather, how lovely it was
that the sun had come out. (Laughter) Now, this despite the fact
that I lived in Nigeria. I had never been outside Nigeria. We didn’t have snow, we ate mangoes, and we never talked about the weather, because there was no need to. My characters also drank
a lot of ginger beer, because the characters
in the British books I read drank ginger beer. Never mind that I had no idea
what ginger beer was. (Laughter) And for many years afterwards, I would have a desperate desire
to taste ginger beer. But that is another story. What this demonstrates, I think, is how impressionable
and vulnerable we are in the face of a story, particularly as children. Because all I had read were books
in which characters were foreign, I had become convinced that books by their very nature
had to have foreigners in them and had to be about things with which
I could not personally identify. Now, things changed
when I discovered African books. There weren’t many of them available, and they weren’t quite as easy to find
as the foreign books. But because of writers like
Chinua Achebe and Camara Laye, I went through a mental shift
in my perception of literature. I realized that people like me, girls with skin the color of chocolate, whose kinky hair could not form ponytails, could also exist in literature. I started to write
about things I recognized. Now, I loved those
American and British books I read. They stirred my imagination.
They opened up new worlds for me. But the unintended consequence was that I did not know
that people like me could exist in literature. So what the discovery of African writers
did for me was this: It saved me from having a single story
of what books are. I come from a conventional,
middle-class Nigerian family. My father was a professor. My mother was an administrator. And so we had, as was the norm, live-in domestic help, who would often
come from nearby rural villages. So, the year I turned eight,
we got a new house boy. His name was Fide. The only thing my mother told us about him
was that his family was very poor. My mother sent yams and rice,
and our old clothes, to his family. And when I didn’t finish my dinner,
my mother would say, “Finish your food! Don’t you know?
People like Fide’s family have nothing.” So I felt enormous pity for Fide’s family. Then one Saturday,
we went to his village to visit, and his mother showed us
a beautifully patterned basket made of dyed raffia
that his brother had made. I was startled. It had not occurred to me
that anybody in his family could actually make something. All I had heard about them
was how poor they were, so that it had become impossible for me
to see them as anything else but poor. Their poverty was my single story of them. Years later, I thought about this
when I left Nigeria to go to university in the United States. I was 19. My American roommate was shocked by me. She asked where I had learned
to speak English so well, and was confused when I said that Nigeria happened to have English
as its official language. She asked if she could listen
to what she called my “tribal music,” and was consequently very disappointed when I produced my tape of Mariah Carey. (Laughter) She assumed that I did not know
how to use a stove. What struck me was this: She had felt sorry for me
even before she saw me. Her default position
toward me, as an African, was a kind of patronizing,
well-meaning pity. My roommate had a single story of Africa: a single story of catastrophe. In this single story, there was no possibility of Africans
being similar to her in any way, no possibility of feelings
more complex than pity, no possibility of a connection
as human equals. I must say that before I went to the U.S., I didn’t consciously identify as African. But in the U.S., whenever Africa came up,
people turned to me. Never mind that I knew nothing
about places like Namibia. But I did come to embrace
this new identity, and in many ways I think
of myself now as African. Although I still get quite irritable
when Africa is referred to as a country, the most recent example being
my otherwise wonderful flight from Lagos two days ago, in which there was an announcement
on the Virgin flight about the charity work in “India,
Africa and other countries.” (Laughter) So, after I had spent some years
in the U.S. as an African, I began to understand
my roommate’s response to me. If I had not grown up in Nigeria, and if all I knew about Africa
were from popular images, I too would think that Africa
was a place of beautiful landscapes, beautiful animals, and incomprehensible people, fighting senseless wars,
dying of poverty and AIDS, unable to speak for themselves and waiting to be saved
by a kind, white foreigner. I would see Africans
in the same way that I, as a child, had seen Fide’s family. This single story of Africa ultimately
comes, I think, from Western literature. Now, here is a quote from the writing
of a London merchant called John Lok, who sailed to west Africa in 1561 and kept a fascinating
account of his voyage. After referring to the black Africans
as “beasts who have no houses,” he writes, “They are also
people without heads, having their mouth and eyes
in their breasts.” Now, I’ve laughed
every time I’ve read this. And one must admire
the imagination of John Lok. But what is important about his writing is that it represents the beginning of a tradition of telling
African stories in the West: A tradition of Sub-Saharan Africa
as a place of negatives, of difference, of darkness, of people who, in the words
of the wonderful poet Rudyard Kipling, are “half devil, half child.” And so, I began to realize
that my American roommate must have throughout her life seen and heard different versions
of this single story, as had a professor, who once told me that my novel
was not “authentically African.” Now, I was quite willing to contend that there were a number of things
wrong with the novel, that it had failed in a number of places, but I had not quite imagined
that it had failed at achieving something
called African authenticity. In fact, I did not know
what African authenticity was. The professor told me that my characters
were too much like him, an educated and middle-class man. My characters drove cars. They were not starving. Therefore they were not
authentically African. But I must quickly add
that I too am just as guilty in the question of the single story. A few years ago,
I visited Mexico from the U.S. The political climate in the U.S.
at the time was tense, and there were debates going on
about immigration. And, as often happens in America, immigration became
synonymous with Mexicans. There were endless stories of Mexicans as people who were
fleecing the healthcare system, sneaking across the border, being arrested at the border,
that sort of thing. I remember walking around
on my first day in Guadalajara, watching the people going to work, rolling up tortillas in the marketplace, smoking, laughing. I remember first feeling slight surprise. And then, I was overwhelmed with shame. I realized that I had been so immersed
in the media coverage of Mexicans that they had become one thing in my mind, the abject immigrant. I had bought into
the single story of Mexicans and I could not have
been more ashamed of myself. So that is how to create a single story, show a people as one thing, as only one thing, over and over again, and that is what they become. It is impossible to talk
about the single story without talking about power. There is a word, an Igbo word, that I think about whenever I think about
the power structures of the world, and it is “nkali.” It’s a noun that loosely translates
to “to be greater than another.” Like our economic and political worlds, stories too are defined
by the principle of nkali: How they are told, who tells them, when they’re told,
how many stories are told, are really dependent on power. Power is the ability not just to tell
the story of another person, but to make it the definitive
story of that person. The Palestinian poet
Mourid Barghouti writes that if you want to dispossess a people, the simplest way to do it
is to tell their story and to start with, “secondly.” Start the story with the arrows
of the Native Americans, and not with the arrival of the British, and you have an entirely different story. Start the story with
the failure of the African state, and not with the colonial
creation of the African state, and you have an entirely different story. I recently spoke at a university where a student told me
that it was such a shame that Nigerian men were physical abusers like the father character in my novel. I told him that I had just read a novel
called “American Psycho” — (Laughter) — and that it was such a shame that young Americans
were serial murderers. (Laughter) (Applause) Now, obviously I said this
in a fit of mild irritation. (Laughter) But it would never have
occurred to me to think that just because I had read a novel
in which a character was a serial killer that he was somehow
representative of all Americans. This is not because I am
a better person than that student, but because of America’s cultural
and economic power, I had many stories of America. I had read Tyler and Updike
and Steinbeck and Gaitskill. I did not have a single story of America. When I learned, some years ago, that writers were expected
to have had really unhappy childhoods to be successful, I began to think about how I could invent
horrible things my parents had done to me. (Laughter) But the truth is that I had
a very happy childhood, full of laughter and love,
in a very close-knit family. But I also had grandfathers
who died in refugee camps. My cousin Polle died because
he could not get adequate healthcare. One of my closest friends,
Okoloma, died in a plane crash because our fire trucks
did not have water. I grew up under repressive
military governments that devalued education, so that sometimes, my parents
were not paid their salaries. And so, as a child, I saw jam
disappear from the breakfast table, then margarine disappeared, then bread became too expensive, then milk became rationed. And most of all, a kind
of normalized political fear invaded our lives. All of these stories make me who I am. But to insist on only
these negative stories is to flatten my experience and to overlook the many other
stories that formed me. The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes
is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story. Of course, Africa is a continent
full of catastrophes: There are immense ones,
such as the horrific rapes in Congo and depressing ones, such as the fact that 5,000 people apply
for one job vacancy in Nigeria. But there are other stories
that are not about catastrophe, and it is very important, it is just
as important, to talk about them. I’ve always felt that it is impossible to engage properly
with a place or a person without engaging with all of the stories
of that place and that person. The consequence
of the single story is this: It robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition
of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different
rather than how we are similar. So what if before my Mexican trip, I had followed the immigration
debate from both sides, the U.S. and the Mexican? What if my mother had told us
that Fide’s family was poor and hardworking? What if we had an African
television network that broadcast diverse
African stories all over the world? What the Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe
calls “a balance of stories.” What if my roommate knew
about my Nigerian publisher, Muhtar Bakare, a remarkable man who left
his job in a bank to follow his dream
and start a publishing house? Now, the conventional wisdom
was that Nigerians don’t read literature. He disagreed. He felt that people
who could read, would read, if you made literature affordable
and available to them. Shortly after he published my first novel, I went to a TV station
in Lagos to do an interview, and a woman who worked there
as a messenger came up to me and said, “I really liked your novel.
I didn’t like the ending. Now, you must write a sequel,
and this is what will happen …” (Laughter) And she went on to tell me
what to write in the sequel. I was not only charmed, I was very moved. Here was a woman, part of the ordinary
masses of Nigerians, who were not supposed to be readers. She had not only read the book, but she had taken ownership of it and felt justified in telling me
what to write in the sequel. Now, what if my roommate knew
about my friend Funmi Iyanda, a fearless woman who hosts
a TV show in Lagos, and is determined to tell the stories
that we prefer to forget? What if my roommate knew
about the heart procedure that was performed in the Lagos
hospital last week? What if my roommate knew
about contemporary Nigerian music, talented people singing
in English and Pidgin, and Igbo and Yoruba and Ijo, mixing influences from Jay-Z to Fela to Bob Marley to their grandfathers. What if my roommate knew
about the female lawyer who recently went to court in Nigeria
to challenge a ridiculous law that required women to get
their husband’s consent before renewing their passports? What if my roommate knew about Nollywood, full of innovative people making
films despite great technical odds, films so popular that they really are the best example
of Nigerians consuming what they produce? What if my roommate knew about
my wonderfully ambitious hair braider, who has just started her own business
selling hair extensions? Or about the millions of other Nigerians
who start businesses and sometimes fail, but continue to nurse ambition? Every time I am home I am confronted with the usual sources of irritation
for most Nigerians: our failed infrastructure,
our failed government, but also by the incredible resilience of people who thrive
despite the government, rather than because of it. I teach writing workshops
in Lagos every summer, and it is amazing to me
how many people apply, how many people are eager to write, to tell stories. My Nigerian publisher and I
have just started a non-profit called Farafina Trust, and we have big dreams
of building libraries and refurbishing libraries
that already exist and providing books for state schools that don’t have anything
in their libraries, and also of organizing lots
and lots of workshops, in reading and writing, for all the people who are eager
to tell our many stories. Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used
to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used
to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people, but stories can also repair
that broken dignity. The American writer
Alice Walker wrote this about her Southern relatives
who had moved to the North. She introduced them to a book about the Southern life
that they had left behind. “They sat around,
reading the book themselves, listening to me read the book,
and a kind of paradise was regained.” I would like to end with this thought: That when we reject the single story, when we realize that
there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise. Thank you. (Applause)


  • Talsong Kingslayer

    So you are showing that blacks and Hispanics aren't just one story yet you seem to skip over Asians and whites. And man, you really pointed out the bad deeds of whites but skipped the bad deeds of all the other races. I smell a hypocrite who wants to paint everyone as being more than their stereotypes but you kept whites the same. Nice back handed racism. I love it

  • Gratitude

    I grew up in Poland 🇵🇱. I didn’t see one chocolate coloured person till I was at the airport embarking my journey to Canada 🇨🇦.
    The only story I ever read about black people, was about a boy who was a good student but rebellious. When I didn’t finish my meal, my mom would say , kids in Africa are starving and you are picky ! I didn’t know what “Africa” was .
    My first contact with a black person made me feel uneasy but curious.
    Fast forward I quickly learned about all races and cultures. I started traveling and met people of walks of life. In Dominican Republic I was assaulted by a black man, barely escaped with my life broken. I suffered PTST for years. I could have hated the bandit and the the race , I forgave him and prayed for him .
    Little more fast forward, I went to Africa; Tanzania.
    Traveler to philanthropist in one trip. The Children that captured my heart were the reason that I fell in love with Tanzania. What I saw was warmth of people and poverty of those who could not help themselves; orphans! A short time passed; 8 months to be exact, my heart could not give me a break . I went back to Tanzania. Fundraised enough money to buy 850 school books and distribute them to several schools in the region. I was the lucky one to see the curious little children and the love they showed me through songs shows, simple NAKUPENDA, KARIBU Jolanta.
    Few years fast forward and few more trips, I’ve built a school for children with disabilities and planning to build more , save more children from suffering disease or even death .
    I have many friends and I even dated a Tanzanian for a while . I’ve learned many things about Tanzania and Africans as a whole . I’m considering investing in Tanzania or even move to live there.
    I think it was God’s plan for me to be thrown to the world, to give me a purpose in life . I love to help knowing I will not be repaid. I’m grateful for those experiences and I’m praying for more blessings so I can be a tool for God’s work . Mungu Awabariki Africa.

  • Tim Hallas

    If it were not for the "intrusion" of the foreigners, there would have never been an African book. The first, second, third and fourth civilizations in Africa were all built by "foreigners".. The stories of African people would hold no interest to African children because they were stories of an ignorant people . This woman owes her education, and her position here to the "intruders" of her homeland. Don't let her "African" propaganda fool you. She likes air conditioning and cold beer. … and snow.

  • Judah Mugomba

    What if my roommate knew that the first country to be civerlized is Zimbabwe and became also the first to suffer the endless poverty especially the ones who are educated.

  • Abraham Cooper

    Chimamada, you are a pride of Africa. Country or Continent, people like you change the perception of Mr. White-man towards Africans

  • Howard Cohen

    Thank you very much, Chimamanda Nigozi Adichie, for encouraging me (among, I suppose, 5,170,975 others). I'm forever grateful. There is never a single story about anyone, any place or anything. I'll remember.

  • Valdenice Fernandes

    Lembro de: representações sociais, estereótipos, inviabilidade, lugar de fala… Lembro tbm da música recente do Emicida: AmaElo! Musica incrível!

  • Lafayette Williams

    The magnificent beautiful Black marbled female intellect.So articulate and complete in her analysis of European racism and how it has produced a wicked intellectual poison.

  • the Parajsë

    That was so beautiful and eye opening, i think to sm extent as Africans we also have a single story about America, i ws recently very surprised when I saw a movie shot in an American town in a neighborhood that wasnt a black “ghetto” but seemed to be worse that the ghettos ive seen, i was like there are places like this in America😳 i ws truly shocked. Also recently i went to Zimbabwe and saw one of the most beautiful malls in Harare, not huge in size buy very very beautiful and different to what my mind believed Zimbabwe to be, without my eyes ever having seen Zimbabwe. Thank you for this.



  • Lim Kaamen

    Stunning daughter! African Queen at her best! Can't even remember in September 2019 when I first watched this; probably close to a decade ago.

  • Jennifer Anatulu

    I just love this woman!!!
    I can't believe I'm listening to this for the first time in 2019.
    There's this sense of pride i get when i hear Chimamanda speak. She makes me proud of my cultural heritage. Proud to be Nigerian, proud to be igbo just like her. It's amazing seeing a Nigerian igbo lady making a difference and it makes me think 'hey Jennie you can too'.

  • H L

    This woman is racist. She has to see people that look like her do things to believe that she can do them too. A non-racist wouldn’t care.

  • Dustshoe

    A harsh assessment on her 'American room-mate' at their American university, I think. Perhaps her room-mate, in her eagerness to please, and to be welcoming to other newcomers, merely stumbled over some of her words. Americans are overly impressed by posh accents, especially British-sounding ones, and in order to NOT come across as patronising, on the contrary, the American room-mate, instead of saying "I love your accent!!" said "Wow! Where did you learn to speak so well?" – which could mean also that she was curious about the environment the speaker here grew up in.

    When her room-mate asked the speaker about "tribal music", it could well be that, in a rush to find common ground with the speaker, because Americans are kind and warm people (like the ones you bump into on holiday: the sort who might send their kids to university), and also because they are going to have to share living quarters, the American room-mate, too mindful of wanting to be understood and inclusive all at once, decided quickly that to inquire about "Nigerian traditional music" or "Nigerian country" or even "African country music" or "traditional African music" were going to be meaningless or even crude terms – and, naively rather than patronisingly, settled for "tribal music" as her spark. (Was she a country and western fan from the South?).

    And as for the stove. Well, how many times have students burned things! How many times have fire alarms been set off in student digs! Perhaps the speaker at this point was assuming too many things about the dreaded American room-mates in general – these days cookers and microwaves are so unnecessarily complicated. In the 1990s, there might have been a few tricky stoves too. Unlikely in student digs back then. All we can take here from the speaker's word is that in a patronising, well-meaning-pitying way, her room-mate showed her how their stove works.

    These 19-year-olds! They're just kids too, really.

  • The Matadore

    Yes! I'm from the Middle East and I know what Americans around me think when they know where I'm from. Suddenly their entire perception of who I am changes. Suddenly they feel the need to talk about how they want peace and they feel pressured to ask the same questions. War and land isn't our only story! Brilliant.

  • Black Matters

    My idea about Africa has changed after I listened to her speech. Indeed, there is a danger of a single story. Very inspiring and informative.

  • Juergen Bernhard

    I know many people from Nigeria and Kenya, but as they are mostly single mums, I got caught by the single story that African men mistreat women and tend to sexually abuse them. The "American Psycho" parallel caught me.

  • salwa Aj

    i m north african, most in my country are white africans, i wonder how confusing this could be to americans :p
    i often interract with mainly french poeple, and very often i'm the one confused by how my ideas on things like feminism and social injustices are .. more progressive that theirs. :p i m also often amazed how i percieve my multi-linguistic skills as a source of personal pride, but that westerns would see it as a "due", of course a third world citizen sould learn the langage of "his betters".

  • Latoya Muringai

    Well said Chima…Maybe out of "feeling" the response you gave that child but that was best at that moment at time's stop them in their tracks before they run themselves over. My respond all time's whenever the term says AFRICA as if it's a country , I always respond AFRICA IS A CONTINENT WITH 54 COUNTRIES …AND EACH COUNTRY HAS MORE THAN 5 OFFICIAL LANGUAGES…DIFFERENT CULTURES AND TRIBE'S. ☺

  • Darin Sullaphen

    Brilliant! The African all too often story goes unheard but what a wonderful story they have to tell if on can make the time to listen!!!

  • Malaika Nasoma

    Thank you Chimamanda Adichie! My dream is to write a children`s story book . I have read a book of yours out here in the German Diaspora and Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiongo, Okot P´Bitek and other great writers were a must during my literature classes. And now you are there! Congratulations.


    I'm Igbo too I saw Chimamada's name I knew she was too ♥️

    What Chimamanda said about of all I saw of Africa was "beautiful landscapes, beautiful animals, and incomprehensible people , fighting senseless wars, poverty and AIDS, unable to speak for themselves. Waiting to be saved by a well meaning white foreigner" is straight facts.

    Result of damaging media, colonization, segregation, lack of understanding and ideas built on racism.


  • Leah Luseno

    Chimamanda is a phenomenal lady and a phenomenal writer. Her books are amazing and awe in inspiring. I in particular loved half of a yellow sun and Americanah and I was really mesmerized by them.May God Continue blessing her and may she continue being an inspiration to many more young women like me.

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