EVERYTHING GOOD WILL COME BY SEFI ATTA PDF

Plot summary[ edit ] Everything Good Will Come is a bildungsroman that tells the story of Enitan, a young Nigerian woman growing up in her native homeland coping with the demands of the patriarchal society that encompasses her. Due to her being an only child and the death of her brother, her parents have strict demands that restrict her from having a normal childhood. Sheri is a sassy young girl sassy with a rebellious nature, constantly testing those around her, while craving the attention of any male. The girls are soon forced to separate; Enitan is sent to a school abroad to receive a better education than that offered in Lagos. Her father, an educated lawyer, wants the best for her and hopes she will take over his firm once she has finished school and proves herself as a lawyer.

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Publisher: Interlink Books October 31, Pages: pages ISBN ISBN It is , and Nigeria is under military rule, though the politics of the state matter less than those of her home to Enitan Taiwo, an eleven-year-old girl tired of waiting for school to start. This novel charts the fate of these two Nigerian girls, one who is prepared to manipulate the traditional system and one who attempts to defy it.

This is convincing; more remarkable is what the novel has to say about the need to speak out when all around is falling apart. This is award-winning novel is an iridescent introduction to a fascinating nation. At the same time, reflecting the resilience of the Lagosians whose lives she explores, humour is almost constant, effervescent, most often with a satirical twist.

Differences, yes, but sometimes connections, too. It confronts the familiar passions of a city and a country with unusual insights and a lyrical power pointing our literature to truly greater heights. I was sorry when I came to the end.

At an age when other Nigerian girls were masters at ten-ten, the game in which we stamped our feet in rhythm and tried to outwit partners with sudden knee jerks, my favorite moments were spent sitting on a jetty pretending to fish. We lived by Lagos Lagoon. Our yard stretched over an acre and was surrounded by a high wooden fence that could drive splinters into careless fingers. Hot, hot were the days as I remember them, with runny-egg sunshine and brief breezes.

The early afternoons were for eat and sleep breaks: eat a heavy lunch, sleep like a drunk. The late afternoons, after homework, I spent on our jetty, a short wooden promenade I could walk in three steps, if I took long enough strides to strain the muscles between my thighs. Sometimes fishermen came close, rowing in a rhythm that pleased me more than chewing on fried tripe; their skins charred, almost gray from sun-dried sea salt. They spoke in the warble of island people, yodeling across their canoes.

I was never tempted to jump into the lagoon as they did. It gave off the smell of raw fish and was the kind of dirty brown I knew would taste like vinegar.

Plus, everyone knew about the currents that could drag a person away. Bodies usually showed up days later, bloated, stiff and rotten.

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