NEW YORK, MY VILLAGE

A Nigerian editor suffers through four months in New York in Akpan's satirical first novel.

Ekong Udousoro, a Nigerian book editor, heads to Manhattan to understudy at a publishing house and edit an anthology of stories by minority writers caught in the crossfire during the Biafran War, a ruthless ethnic conflict that consumed southern Nigeria in the late 1960s and whose legacy still haunts Ekong and other members of his hard-hit tribal minority. After procuring a visa—an infuriating process that provides some of the book’s most affecting scenes—Ekong arrives in New York and quickly falls in love with Times Square, which feels “so global, so democratic, as though all these lights had already boiled and refined every soul down to essential humanity.” Yet he also finds himself living in an illegal sublet in a shabby Hell’s Kitchen apartment that hasn’t been renovated in decades—and he and his neighbors soon find themselves battling not just racial tensions, but an infestation of bedbugs. Meanwhile, Ekong finds himself the only person at his publishing house who isn't White, something that is uncomfortable for him and, tellingly, for his supposedly anti-racist co-workers. (There’s an amazing moment during an editorial meeting when Jack, a high-powered villain on the publicity team, says that Ekong isn’t “conversant” enough about American culture to edit American stories; Ekong replies that Jack is “totally right,” then adds, “But you guys have been editing African fiction, no?”) America and Nigeria serve as mirrors for each other here: Both are places of incredible diversity (Nigeria has at least 250 ethnic groups), yet both are marred by the fact that old conflicts continue to circumscribe nearly every interracial (or intertribal) interaction. Yet, as important as Akpan’s investigations into this subject are, his book struggles at the line and scene levels. For instance, this interaction between Ekong and his neighbor is as defined by its stilted dialogue as it is by its piercing insight into the sometimes-fraught relationship between Black Americans and Black Africans: “ ‘Look, Ekong, let’s forget our disagreement for a moment, so we can really talk,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You’re very gracious...thanks,’ I said, straightening up. ‘Keith, talking is good, talking is really good, bro.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘No, I’m sorry for my outburst and attack! I didn’t have to say that about slaves and your ancestors—our ancestors….’ ‘I guess we can’t resolve four-hundred-year-old bad blood by screaming at each other on the streets.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Bro, how was your day?’ ‘So-so.’ ‘Mine, too.’ ”

A rollicking picaresque at times hindered by stilted dialogue and bulky scenes.