Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s long-awaited Dream Count feels less like a comeback than a quiet home-coming. From the first line — “I have always longed to be known…” — she pulls us into the inner rooms of four women navigating love, regret and the stillness of a pandemic world.

The prose is classic Adichie: witty, unadorned, and intimate enough to feel invasive. WhatsApp voice notes, late-night Google spirals and unspoken family tensions are rendered with a hyperreal clarity that makes the page throb. At times the multiple viewpoints jostle, yet the payoff is a portrait of womanhood so layered it refuses tidy lessons.

Fans will relish the familiar pleasures: cultural nuance, sly humour, dialogue that bites. Meanwhile, newcomers receive an instant initiation. Dream Count isn’t flawless, but in photographing the soul at close range, Adichie reminds us why her candour still matters. The novel lingers like a half-finished conversation you’ll replay for days.