Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie是二十九歲的奈及利亞女作家，她的祖父母即是死於內戰。三年前以處女作The Purple Hibiscus入圍柑橘獎，今年終以本書獲得大獎。
2007年 Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction 柑橘小說獎得獎作品！本次獲獎的是奈吉利亞籍的 Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie，年僅二十九歲。她的處女作《Purple Hibiscus》就曾經入圍2004年的柑橘小說獎決選名單，以及當年的布克獎初選名單。
Richard said little at the parties Susan took him to. When she introduced him, she always added that he was a writer, and he hoped the other guests assumed he was distant in the way writers were, although he feared they saw through him and knew he simply felt out of place. But they were pleasant to him; they would be to anyone who was Susan’s companion, as long as Susan continued to engage them with her wit, her laughter, her green eyes that sparkled in a face flushed from glasses of wine.
"Kedu afa gi? What’s your name?’ Master asked, startling him.
Ugwu stood up.
‘What’s your name?’ Master asked again and sat up straight. He filled the armchair, his thick hair that stood high on his head, his muscled arms, his broad shoulders; Ugwu had imagined an older man, somebody frail, and now he felt a sudden fear that he might not please this master who looked so youthfully, who looked as if he needed nothing.
‘Ugwu. And you’ve come from Obukpa?’
‘From Opi, sah.’
‘You could be anything from twelve to thirty.’ Master narrowed his eyes. ‘Probably thirteen.’ He said thirteen in English.
Master turned back to his book. Ugwu stood there. Master flipped past some pages and looked up. ‘Ngwa, go to the kitchen; there should be something you can eat in the fridge.’
「Kedu afa gi？你叫什麼名字？」主人問。
Ugwu entered the kitchen cautiously, placing one foot slowly after the other. When he
saw the white thing, almost as tall as he was, he knew it was the fridge. He aunty had told
him about it. A cold barn, she had said, that kept food from going off. He opened it and
gasped as the cool air rushed into his face. Oranges, bread, beer, soft drinks: many things in
packets and cans were arranged on different levels and, at the top, a roasted, shimmering
chicken, whole but for a leg. Ugwu reached out and touched the chicken. The fridge breathed
heavily in his ears. He touched the chicken again and licked his finger before he yanked the
other leg off, eating it until he had only the cracked, sucked pieces of bones left in his
hand. Next, he broke off some bread, a chunk that he would have been excited to share with
his siblings if a relative had visited and brought it as a gift. He ate quickly, before Master
could come in and change his mind. He had finished eating and was standing by the sink,
trying to remember what his aunty had told him about opening it to have water gush out like
a spring, when Master walked in. He had put on a print shirt and a pair of trousers. His toes,
which peeked through leather slippers, seemed feminine, perhaps because they were so
clean; they belonged to feet that always wore shoes.