{"product_id":"adas-room-isbn-9780593539804","title":"Ada's Room","description":"\u003cb\u003eA kaleidoscopic novel spanning generations and continents, that reveals the connections between four women in their struggle for survival.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA woman in 15th century West Africa named Ada buries her child and confronts a Portuguese enslaver. A woman in Victorian England named Ada Lovelace, a mathematical genius and computer programming pioneer, tries to hide her affair with Charles Dickens from her husband. A woman named Ada, imprisoned in a concentration camp at Mittelbau-Dora in 1945, will survive one more day in enforced prostitution. Connected by an unknown but sentient spirit, and a bracelet of fertility beads that each Ada encounters at a pivotal moment in her life, these women share a name and a purpose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs their interwoven narratives converge on a modern day Ada, a young Ghanaian woman who finds herself pregnant, alone, in Berlin, searching for a home before her baby arrives, their shared spirit will find a way to help her break the vicious cycle of injustice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis novel is a feat of imagination and breaks down simplistic notions of history as a straight line; one woman’s experience matters to another’s 400 years later, on a different continent. In this deeply moving, at times mordantly funny, ultimately hopeful book, there is a connection between all those fighting for love, for family, for justice, for a home. | \u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eAda's Room\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thrillingly, astonishingly original. You will not have read anything quite like this before.\" —R.O. Kwon, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Incendiaries\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] novel that demands a great deal emotionally and intellectually of the reader, but its boldness and ambition leave an indelible imprint. A rule-shattering novel about the presentness of the past.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An impressive and highly original work, brimming over with energy.” – \u003ci\u003eTimes Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Sharon Dodua Otoo is the new voice in German literature.... Her debut novel goes big.” —\u003ci\u003eKölner Stadt-Anzeiger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Otoo is a singular voice in contemporary German literature.... [A] daring experiment, not unlike Yaa Gyasi’s debut novel, \u003ci\u003eHomegoing\u003c\/i\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eDer Tagesspiegel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"By effortlessly moving between centuries in her novel, Sharon Dodua Otoo reveals not only the weight of history that comes to bear on a young Black woman in dire circumstances who is looking for a home – it also demonstrates which patterns have remained powerful to this day.\" —\u003ci\u003eFrankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung\u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eSharon Dodua Otoo\u003c\/b\u003e is the winner of the Ingeborg Bachmann Prize and will be the Schroeder Writer-in-Residence at the University of Cambridge in 2022. She is active with the Initiative Schwarze Menschen and is affiliated with the Black queer feminist association ADEFRA. A writer and activist born in London, she lives in Berlin and writes in German. This is her first novel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eJon Cho-Polizzi\u003c\/b\u003e is an Assistant Professor of German at the University of Michigan, and a literary translator. He lives and works between Ann Arbor, Northern California, and Berlin.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  | Ada\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTotope\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarch 1459\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring the longest night of the year, blood clung to my forehead and my baby died. Finally. He had whimpered in his final moments, and Naa Lamiley had caressed his cheek. How lovely, I had thought, that this would be his final memory. She lay beside him, the child between us, and her head rested next to mine. Naa Lamiley's eyes shimmered as she assured me it would not be much longer now, \"God willing.\" She whispered because all of our mothers were sleeping on the other side of the room, but Naa Lamiley's voice would have given out at any moment anyway. Together, we had cried and prayed at my baby's side for the last three nights. I could barely hear her, and I understood her even less. While she caressed him, she had stared at me, as if surprised by my confusion-though the words How would you know? never left my lips. In an already unbearable situation, this moment was particularly absurd. Naa Lamiley always knew. But in that moment-it was quite literally a matter of my own flesh and blood-I did not want to seem clueless to her. To distract myself, I scratched my forehead. I scratched and forgot I had blood under my nails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe few candles Naa Lamiley had gathered and placed before the doorway flickered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It was this way with Kofi, too.\" She breathed softly, as if she did not wish to disturb my son while he was dying. Shame on me. This was not so long ago. The ensuing silence resulting from my shame and her sympathy accompanied us through the final tortured breaths. The candles wept.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside, Naa Lamiley had prepared a tiny pad of palm leaves to lay him out in the moonlit courtyard. She spread a white cloth over it. There would be no grave. The boy did not even have a name; he was only five days old. And yet he had tarried longer than my first child. Also a boy. He had opened his eyes immediately after birth, looked around, and evidently not liked what he had seen. That little one had left us before I could even take him in my arms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaa Lamiley squeezed my hand once, briefly, then shifted to her knees and stood. I wanted to as well, but with great effort, I managed to make it only halfway-a squat. It was about time to carry out his body-I remained on the floor. She bent over one of the flames-I remained on the floor. She blew one candle out, then the next, then another. Finally, she lifted the baby's body and carried him from our room. I remained on the floor. The darkness comforted me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the open doorway, I watched how Naa Lamiley weighed my baby in her arms, how she lay his body gently down onto the palm leaves, how she adjusted his head lovingly, pressing his lips together. How she blinked her tears away. I leaned back against the wall, closed my own eyes, and dozed off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy sunrise-his body was still warm-the older women, toothless and spitting, had assured one another that I had best forget about it all as quickly as possible. They sat together on the bench directly in front of our hut, watching the morning unfold. The one whose eyesight was poorest nodded emphatically in Naa Lamiley's direction as she pronounced that I was still young and could, God willing, bear at least three more healthy children one after another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Or\"-Mami Ashitey cackled, shaking her broom-\"perhaps all three at once!\" And as if this were the best joke of all time, they began to laugh in unison. Their rib cages shook, and their eyes wept tears of laughter. I bit my lip. Did they not know the prophesy had foretold that I-the woman they all called Ada-would accompany only one child into adulthood?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaa Odarkor, who was frying up the masses of shrimp that would later be brought to market, threw her fan to the ground and leapt over the coal stove. She had to prop up the toothless one whose hearing was poorest, as she began to laugh so mightily, she almost fell from her bench.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForget it all as soon as possible? I fought to hold on to every memory I had of him! I clung with all my strength to the sour scent of my son. His murmuring still resounded in my ears, as though he had only just stopped nursing. And I longed for this again, o! My swollen breasts all but robbed me of my breath. As chapped and tender as my nipples were, I wished for nothing more than to exchange the agony in my engorged breasts for the torture of nursing. Naa Lamiley shook her head and chewed at her cracked thumbnail while the toothless ones began to laugh at me once more. But it was really true that I could still feel how he had gazed at me as I had held him in my arms. Like a promise, he would stay with me forever. Or perhaps a promise that I had never really lived without him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Eh-eh!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's not your HUSBAND, o!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned away. So, I should only mourn someone I once had lain with? Pfft!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did not want a grave. There should not be another forgotten, overgrown place that no one would care for after we had departed-and that would be soon after all: We were only waiting for a sign. No grave. But there should be a ritual; Naa Lamiley knew which one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot until early evening, after the hearth fire had been fanned, the soup cooked, and the yams mashed-not until all of us had eaten-only then would one of my mothers \"take care of the baby.\" Unless I could steal away with him while the toothless ones-surrounded by plucked feathers and slaughtered hens-continued to chatter on excitedly. I would walk to the great water, approach its edge, and permit the tiny peaceful body to glide out upon the waves. This was my wish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause I did not yet want to show myself at market-it was still too soon-I sent Naa Lamiley instead to collect the two or three yams we needed for the ritual. She nodded, first in exhaustion, then in determination-disappearing with a basket of smoked fish. I also threatened to disappear. Before my eyes an all-encompassing blackness spread. A hole. Were I to fall into it, there would be no escape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe toothless ones calmed themselves, and the hens, too, ceased their clucking and flapping. Mami Ashitey cackled on, hobbling about and fluttering her arms in the air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Naa?\" she cried, her right eye tearing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaa Odarkor shook her head. Seconds before, she had watched as Mami Ashitey had rubbed her face with her dusty hand. I should have removed whatever it was that ended up in her eye-it would have been better, for Naa Odarkor's fingers shook-but it was still too soon. I could not tolerate Naa Odarkor's loving gaze upon her wife, the tenderness of her touch, the pettiness of Mami Ashitey's pain. By the time I had turned away, it was already over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGradually, they all resumed their activities-the sweeping of the yard, the fanning of the flames, or the chewing of kotsa. That the toothless ones still used kotsa at all! Even I used the chewing sponge only after meals or occasionally to remove a particularly foul taste from my mouth. But these elders? If they had had one single tooth to share among them, it would have been a lot! And yet they chewed day in and day out, as if they were trying in vain to grind down a piece of gristle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy baby was covered with a white cloth and was safe from both the swirling dust and the other mothers' flying spit. But I should have waited for Naa Lamiley. Even centuries later, I still will not know what I was thinking. In any case, the bracelet was already untied. I held it in my right hand and counted the golden beads with my thumb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThirty, thirty-one, thirty-two . . . thirty-three moon phases ago when I had noticed that the line below my belly button was beginning to darken again, I had left no stone unturned. At first, I had prayed to Jehovah, the god of the whites, for I had been told that he was a jealous god, and thought he might appreciate that I had turned to him first in my hour of need. And so, I had closed my eyes, folded my hands together, and moved my lips zealously. While I was still kneeling, the thought came to me that it would be prudent to next venerate the coastal deity, Ataa Naa Nyɔŋmɔ, because the combination of the masculine Ataa and the feminine Naa were surely more powerful than Jehovah's one-sided masculinity. In the end, I could merely offer Ataa Naa Nyɔŋmɔ one song in Ga. My voice could not quite reach the high notes, but at least I had known the words. Then I had put on the bracelet, hoping this time that the golden beads might convince the dead to protect my unborn child. That, at least, was the subject of another hasty prayer in Arabic, which my first mother had taught to me a long, long time ago. In the quiet after the duʿāʾ, I poked my distended belly button, and I was confident that my efforts would also please Allah. But all these efforts were in vain. My baby died anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was so wrong with me that my children did not come to stay? I saw nothing, for my lashes were too heavy with tears and pain, but at least I could still pray softly with my fingers and lips. And then, as I began to count the beads of the bracelet once more, it dawned on me: My son did not have to return naked to Asamando like his brother before him. The golden beads, which by no means belonged to me alone, should adorn his waist. And the thought that in this way the bracelet would finally return to my foremothers comforted me a little. I sat beside him. The bracelet was not quite long enough, so I carefully removed three threads from the seam of my cloth. With the tips of my fingernails, I bound them to the wire. The white cloth rustled in the light breeze. It had only a slight bulge beneath it and looked almost innocent. I touched this tiny mound. How hard it was. Like a stone it was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh!\" I moaned as I retracted my hand. My left hand again. The toothless ones were furious. In two strides, Mami Ashitey was at my side. She struck at me mightily, instantly disappointed that the fibers of her broom were too weak for this application. Then she cursed, turning the broom in the palm of her right hand and striking at me again with the wooden handle. Her movements were quick and precise, as though she had been practicing for this all her life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"O Mami!\" My hands encircled my head. \"Please stop, o! Please STOP!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course she heard me, but she acted as though the cries of the other toothless ones drowned out my own. Naa Odarkor nodded at each blow and made no effort to restrain her wife from punishing me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Mami Ashitey struck me on the knee on a particularly tender spot and my leg gave out. It simply happened: Strike. Kick. Suddenly, the white cloth that-until that moment-my son had rested peacefully under lay beside a stiff baby corpse. Astaghfirullah.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few excited hens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour toothless elders, one with a broom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA young woman with a bleeding forehead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA recently deceased child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is how he likely first came upon us, the white man from the sea-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStratford-le-Bow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarch 1848\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glanced back at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile he dressed. First the stockings, then the trousers. Never the other way around. Then his undershirt, shaken out two times. He worried, otherwise, that his overshirt would not sit properly. The tips of his elegant fingers encircled the buttons one after the other. And he quivered with rage. Cher Charles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could have avoided this argument if I had merely conceded to agree with him unconditionally. And often I did, especially in those days, because it had become exceedingly exhausting to quarrel with men like Charles. Men who actually considered themselves to be the \"good ones\" and yet-between the Africans on one side and the women on the other-never knew where to expect the next challenge to their God-given authority and therefore fought preemptively on every front at once. The confidence with which he had presumed to tell me something of probability theory was actually quite comical. It would seem the constricting impact of a corset affected both men and women alike. I kept my internal commentary, Darling, what actually goes on in that little head of yours? to myself and counted silently to ten.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe held one of my calculations for the Analytical Engine in his hand, reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hmm.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tapped on one of the lines with his index finger. Perhaps it had been rather unconscionable of me not to acknowledge him at once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You've made an error here,\" he said. \"There's a comma missing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI examined the spot without turning my head, then returned my gaze to him. I decided on the response: \"Thank you, my dear.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sat at my writing desk, quill pen in hand, and dipped the nib into my inkwell. I appended the missing comma to the sentence: As soon as an Analytical Engine exists it will necessarily guide the future course of the science.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had nodded, removing his reading glasses and cleaning them with his cotton handkerchief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And what, precisely, does analytical signify in this context?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI remember looking up at him, misinterpreting his earnest stare. Admittedly, my subsequent lecture was a bit long-winded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes had glazed over by the time I arrived at my conclusion. \"One day, we will even be able to compose music with it!\" I had raved. \"The applications are limitless!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat had prevented him from simply delighting in this with me? What a pitiful little man, I had thought. How he toyed sulkily with his goatee as he countered: \"If what you are describing were possible, a real scientist would have developed it!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I had merely kept my peace, we could have continued lying together side by side in the warmth of my bed. But after a certain point, even the last spark of artificial humility fizzles out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had nodded. \"Yes. You are quite right. I am that scientist.\"","brand":"Riverhead Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48232908390629,"sku":"NP9780593539804","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593539804.jpg?v=1767721058","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/adas-room-isbn-9780593539804","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}