Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Dream Count marks her first novel in over a decade, and it is a striking return to the literary scene. The novel follows the lives of four women whose journeys, filled with dreams and disappointments, reflect the complexities of modern womanhood. The narrative masterfully presents four distinct voices, offering a deep and multifaceted exploration of their lives, choices, and struggles.
The quartet of central characters consists of Chiamaka, a hopeless-romantic travel writer in search of a soulmate; Zikora, a determined lawyer balancing career ambition with desires for a perfect family; Kadiatou, a maid from Africa hoping for a new life in America; and Omelogor, a banker turned graduate student yearning for intellectual freedom.
Chimamanda, arguably the best Nigerian writer in modern history, does not disappoint with her keen attention to detail and prose delivery. Her portrayal of these women is rich with emotion, capturing the nuances of their desires, frustrations, and heartbreaks. The women’s arcs are compelling, with each chapter providing a fresh lens through which to understand their lives. In essence, Dream Count gives readers four novels in one, as each woman’s story could easily stand alone.
However, while Dream Count succeeds in offering a rich tapestry of female perspectives, it disappoints in one key area: its depiction of men as ‘absolutely negative’. Adichie’s portrayal of men in the novel veers into one-dimensionality. Most of the men in the story are overwhelmingly negative figures—ranging from emotionally neglectful lovers to outright abusers.
Chiamaka’s reflections on love, where she admits to passing up a man who might have been right for her because she did not want to “settle,” underline a recurrent theme in the book: that men, in Adichie’s view, are often more pain than pleasure. While it is undeniable that many of the men in the narrative -and in the world exhibit toxic behavior, the sheer uniformity of their flaws feels excessive.
The men in the book are either enablers (Chiamaka’s father) or deadbeat lovers, cheats, abusers, unambitious (Jide Thomas) or worse. While this critique is not unfounded, it feels, at times, too sweeping and oversimplified.
While it would have been pleasing to see one of these women enjoy a happy, lasting sexual relationship, the emphasis on male flaws ultimately distracts from the strength of Adichie’s female characters. All of the women are unhappy (or pretending to be happy) about their lives because of men’s actions.
Dream Count presents a striking critique of patriarchy, but at times, it misses an opportunity to explore the complexity and power of its women. After all, women are not merely victims of men’s faults. They are also architects of their own futures, capable of profound resilience and transformation. A more nuanced exploration of their agency might have made the book even more powerful, and Omelogor’s POV should have been further explored.
One of the most poignant sections of the novel revolves around Kadiatou, whose backstory is rooted in the real-life story of Nafissatou Diallo, the hotel worker who accused Dominique Strauss-Kahn of sexual assault. In Adichie’s hands, Kadiatou’s journey—from enduring female genital mutilation to facing a publicized rape case—is devastatingly powerful.
In the end, Dream Count is a striking, ambitious novel, but it is not without its flaws. Adichie’s capacity for crafting complex, emotionally resonant female characters is undoubted, and her critique of the many ways in which patriarchy harms women is compelling. However, her portrayal of men as almost universally flawed figures weakens the overall message.
Feminist fiction, after all, must go beyond mere critique: it should offer a vision of the future where women, in all their complexity, triumph despite the obstacles they face, not merely because of them. Nevertheless, Dream Count remains an engaging read—rich, resonant, and thought-provoking
