Summary & Analysis

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Summary & Analysis Assignment

Summary & Analysis Assignment

Summary & Analysis Assignment

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In this assignment you will practice your summary and paraphrase skills separate from your analysis skills. 1. In the first paragraph of your essay, introduce the story by summarizing “Jumping Monkey Hill” OR “American Embassy” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. This paragraph should present the narrative’s main idea and major actions or events. It should also identify the name of the author, title of the text, date of publication. This first paragraph should be at least 150 words. 2. In the next section of your essay (500-700 words), analyze one particular character from the story. Choose a character who you think is meaningful or important to a reader’s overall understanding of the story. In order to prove your argument of why this character is meaningful or how readers should interpret this character, select one or two passages that, you think, provide the strongest pieces of evidence for your argument. Analyze the evidence through close reading to show how the evidence supports your claim. Be sure to introduce each passage—describe where it appears in the text and any relevant background your readers would need to understand what is happening at this point in the text. Then quote and cite the passage. The majority of your paragraph should then be comprised of your explanation of the quotation. 3. Unlike a traditional essay, you do not need a conclusion paragraph. Each paragraph should be complete and coherent, in proper MLA formatting, double-spaced, and typed in Time New Roman 12-point font. As always, spelling counts and you must include a Works Cited list. 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Jumping Monkey Hill Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ( T he cabins all had thatch roofs. Names like BABOON LODGE and PORCUPINE PLACE were hand-painted beside the wooden doors that led out to cobblestone paths and the windows were left open so that guests woke up to the rustling of the jacaranda leaves and the steady calming crash of the sea’s waves. The wicker trays held a selection of fine teas. At mid-morning, discreet black maids made the beds, cleaned the elegant standing bathtubs, vacuumed the carpet 1/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and left wild flowers in hand-crafted vases. Ujunwa found it odd that the African Writers’ Workshop was held here, at Jumping Monkey Hill. The name itself was incongruous, and the resort had the complacence of the well fed about it, the kind of place where she imagined affluent foreign tourists would dart around taking pictures of lizards and then return home still unaware that there were more black people than red-capped lizards in South Africa. Later, she would learn that Edward Campbell chose the resort; he had spent weekends there when he was a lecturer at the University of Cape Town years ago. But she didn’t know this the afternoon Edward picked her up at the airport, an old man in a summer hat who smiled to show two front teeth the colour of mildew. He kissed her on both cheeks. He asked if she had had any trouble with her pre-paid ticket in Lagos, if she minded waiting for the Ugandan whose flight would come soon, if she was hungry. He told her that his wife, Hillary, had already picked up most of the other workshop participants and that their friends, Jason and Sarah, who had come with them from London as paid staff, were arranging a welcome lunch back at the resort. They sat down. He balanced the sign with the Ugandan’s name on his shoulder and told her how humid Cape Town was at this time of the year, how pleased he was about the workshop arrangements. He lengthened his words. His accent was what the British called posh, the kind some rich Nigerians tried to mimic and ended up sounding unintentionally funny. Ujunwa wondered if he had selected her for the workshop. Probably not; it was the British Council that had made the call for entries and then selected the best. Edward had moved a little and sat closer to her on the airport bench. He was asking what she did back home in Nigeria. Ujunwa faked a wide yawn and hoped he would stop talking. He repeated his question and asked whether she had taken leave from her job to attend the workshop. He was watching her intently. He could be anything from sixty-five to ninety. She could not tell his age from his face; it was pleasant but unformed, as though God, having created him, had slapped him flat against a wall and smeared his features all over his face. She smiled vaguely and said that she had just lost her job before she left—a job in banking—and so there had been no need 2/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie to take leave. She yawned again. He seemed keen to know more and she did not want to say more and so when she looked up and saw the Ugandan walking towards them, she was very relieved. The Ugandan looked sleepy. He was square-faced and dark-skinned with uncombed hair that had tightened into kinky balls. He bowed as he shook Edward’s hand with both of his and then turned and mumbled a hello to Ujunwa. He sat in the front seat of the Renault. The drive to the resort was long, on roads haphazardly chiselled into steep hills, and Ujunwa worried that Edward was too old to drive so fast. She held her breath until they arrived at the cluster of thatch roofs and manicured paths. A smiling blonde woman showed her to her cabin, Zebra Lair. She sat on the bed and smelled the cool lavender scent from the linen and then got up to unpack, looking out of the window from time to time to search the canopy of trees for lurking monkeys. There were none, unfortunately, Edward told the participants during lunch under pink umbrellas on the terrace, their tables pushed close to the railings so that they could look down at the turquoise sea. He pointed at each person and did the introductions. The white South African woman was from Durban, while the black man came from Johannesburg. The Tanzanian man came from Dar es Salaam, the Ugandan man from Kampala, the Zimbabwean woman from Harare, the Kenyan man from Nairobi, and the Senegalese woman, the youngest at twenty-three, had flown in from Paris, where she was at university. Edward introduced Ujunwa last—’Ujunwa Ogundu is our Nigerian participant and she lives in Lagos.’ Ujunwa looked around the table and wondered with whom she would get along. The Senegalese woman looked most promising, with the irreverent sparkle in her eyes and the Francophone accent and the streaks of silver in her fat dreadlocks. The Zimbabwean woman had longer, thinner dreadlocks and the cowries in them clinked as she moved her head from side to side. She seemed hyper, over-active, and Ujunwa thought she might like her, but only the way she liked alcohol—in small amounts. The Kenyan and Tanzanian men looked ordinary, almost indistinguishable, tall with wide foreheads, wearing tattered beards and short-sleeved shirts. She thought she would like them in the uninvested way that one 3/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie likes non-threatening people. She wasn’t sure about the South Africans—the white woman had a too-earnest face, humourless and free of make-up, and the black man looked patiently pious, like a Jehovah’s Witness who went from door to door and smiled when each was shut in his face. As for the Ugandan, she had disliked him from the airport, and even more now with his toady answers to Edward’s questions, the way he leaned forward to speak only to Edward and ignored the other participants. They, in turn, said little to him. He was the winner of the last Lipton African Writers’ Prize with a prize of fifteen thousand pounds. They didn’t include him in the polite talk about their flights. After they ate the creamy chicken prettied with herbs, after they drank the sparkling water in glossy bottles, Edward stood up to give the welcome address. He squinted as he spoke and the thin hair scattered over his scalp fluttered in the breeze that smelled of the sea. He started by telling them what they already knew—that the workshop would be for two weeks, that it was his idea but of course funded graciously by the Chamberlain Arts Foundation, just as the Lipton African Writers’ Prize had been his idea and funded also by the good people at the Chamberlain Foundation, that they were all expected to produce one story for possible publication in the Oratory, that laptops would be provided in the cabins, that they would write during the first week and review each participant’s work during the second week, and that the Ugandan would be workshop leader. Then he talked about himself, how African literature had been his cause for forty years, a life-long passion that started at Oxford. He glanced often at the Ugandan. The Ugandan nodded eagerly at each glance. Finally, he introduced his wife, Hillary, although they had all met her. He told them she was an animal rights activist, an old Africa hand who had spent her teenage years in Botswana. He looked proud when she stood up, as if her tall and lean gracefulness made up for what he lacked in appearance. Her hair was a muted red, cut so that wisps framed her face. She patted it as she said, ‘Edward, really, an introduction.’ Ujunwa imagined, though, that Hillary had wanted that introduction, that perhaps she had even reminded Edward of it, saying, ‘Now, dear, remember to introduce me properly at lunch.’ Her tone would be delicate. The same tone she used the next day at breakfast when she sat next to Ujunwa and said that surely, with that exquisite bone structure, 4/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Ujunwa had to come from royal stock in Nigeria. The first thing that came to Ujunwa’s mind was to ask if Hillary ever needed royal blood to explain the good looks of friends back in London. She did not ask that, though, and instead said— because she could not resist—that she was indeed a princess and came from an ancient lineage and that one of her forebears had captured a Portuguese trader in the seventeenth century and kept him, pampered and oiled, in a royal cage. She stopped to sip her cranberry juice and smile into her glass. Hillary said, brightly, that she could always spot royal blood and she hoped Ujunwa would support her anti-poaching campaign and it was just horrible, horrible, how many endangered apes people were killing and they didn’t even eat them, never mind all that talk about bush meat, they just used the private parts for charms. After breakfast, Ujunwa called her mother and told her about the resort and about Hillary and was pleased when her mother chuckled. She hung up and sat in front of her laptop and thought about how long it had been since her mother really laughed. She sat there for a long time, moving the mouse from side to side, trying to decide whether to name her character something common like Chioma or something exotic like Ibari. 5/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ‘ Chioma lives with her mother in Lagos. She has a degree in Economics from Nsukka, has recently finished her National Youth Service and every Thursday she buys the Guardian and scours the employment section and sends out her CV in brown manila envelopes. She hears nothing for weeks. Finally, she gets a phone call inviting her to an interview. After the first few questions, the man says he will hire her and then walks across and stands behind her and reaches over her shoulders to squeeze her breasts. She hisses, ‘Stupid man! You cannot respect yourself!’ and leaves. Weeks of silence follow. She helps out at her mother’s boutique. She sends out more envelopes. At the next interview, the woman tells her she wants somebody foreign-educated, speaking in the fakest, silliest accent Chioma has ever heard and Chioma almost laughs as she leaves. More weeks of silence. Chioma has not seen her father in months but she decides to go to his new office in Ikoyi to ask if he can help her find a job. Their meeting is tense. ‘Why have you not come since, eh?’ he asks, pretending to be angry, because she knows it is easier for him to be angry, it is easier to be angry with people after you have hurt them. He makes some calls. He gives her a thin roll of 200-naira notes. He does not ask about her mother. She notices that the Yellow Woman’s photo is on his desk. Her mother had described her well—’She is very fair, she looks mixed, and the thing is that she is not even pretty, she has a face like an over-ripe yellow pawpaw.’ T he main dining room of Jumping Monkey Hill had chandeliers that hung low over the long white-covered table. Edward sat at one end, Hillary at the other, and the participants in between. The hard wood floors thumped noisily as waiters walked around and handed out menus. Ostrich medallions. Smoked salmon. Chicken in orange sauce. Edward urged everyone to eat the ostrich. It was simply mah-ve-lous. Ujunwa did not like the idea of eating an ostrich, did not even 6/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie know that people ate ostriches, and when she said so, Edward laughed goodnaturedly and said that of course ostrich was an African staple. Everyone else ordered the ostrich, and when Ujunwa’s chicken came, too tart, she wondered if perhaps she should have had the ostrich. It looked like beef anyway. She drank more alcohol than she had ever drunk in her life, two glasses of wine, and she felt mellowed and chatted with the Senegalese about the best ways to care for natural black hair. She heard snatches as Edward talked about wine: Chardonnay was horribly boring. Afterwards, the participants gathered in the gazebo, except for the Ugandan, who sat away with Edward and Hillary. They slapped at flying insects and drank wine and laughed and teased one another. You Kenyans are too submissive! You Nigerians are too aggressive! You Tanzanians have no fashion sense! You Senegalese are too brainwashed by the French! They talked about the war in Sudan, about the decline of the African Writers Series, about books and writers. They agreed that Dambudzo Marechera was astonishing, that Alan Paton was patronizing, that Isak Dinesen was unforgivable. The Kenyan put on a generic European accent and, between drags at his cigarette, recited what Isak Dinesen had said about all Kikuyu children becoming mentally retarded at the age of nine. They laughed. The Zimbabwean said Achebe was boring and did nothing with style and the Kenyan said that was a sacrilege and snatched at the Zimbabwean’s wine glass, until she recanted, laughing, saying of course Achebe was sublime. The Senegalese said she nearly vomited when a professor at the Sorbonne told her that Conrad was really on ‘her side’, as if she could not decide for herself who was on her side. Ujunwa began to jump up and down, babbling nonsense to mimic Conrad’s Africans, feeling the sweet lightness of wine in her head. The Zimbabwean laughed and staggered and fell into the water fountain and climbed out spluttering, her dreadlocks wet, saying she had felt some fish wiggling around in there. The Kenyan said he would use that for his story—fish in the fancy resort fountain—since he really had no idea what he was going to write about. The Senegalese said her story was really her story, about how she mourned her girlfriend and how her grieving had emboldened her to come out to her parents although they now treated her being a lesbian as a mild joke and continued to speak of the families of suitable 7/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie young men. The black South African looked alarmed when he heard ‘lesbian’. He got up and walked away. The Kenyan said the black South African reminded him of his father, who attended a Holy Spirit Revival church and didn’t speak to anybody on the street. The Zimbabwean, Tanzanian, white South African, Senegalese all spoke about their fathers. They looked at Ujunwa and she realized that she was the only one who had said nothing and, for a moment, the wine no longer fogged her mind. She shrugged and mumbled that there was really little to say about her father. He was a normal person. ‘Is he in your life?’ the Senegalese asked, with the soft tone that meant she assumed he was not. Ujunwa’s resentment surprised her. ‘He is in my life,’ she said with a quiet force. ‘He was the one who bought me books when I was a child and the one who read my early poems and stories.’ She paused and everyone was looking at her and she added, ‘He did something that surprised me. It hurt me, too, but mostly it surprised me.’ The Senegalese looked as if she wanted to ask more, but changed her mind and said she wanted more wine. ‘Are you writing about your father?’ the Kenyan asked and Ujunwa said an emphatic NO, because she had never believed in fiction as therapy. The Tanzanian told her that all fiction was therapy, some sort of therapy, no matter what anybody said. That evening, Ujunwa tried to write but her eyeballs were swimming and her head was aching and so she went to bed. After breakfast, she sat before the laptop and cradled a cup of tea. 8/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Chioma gets a call from Merchant Trust Bank, one of the places her father contacted. He knows the chairman of the board. She is hopeful; all the bank people she knows drive nice new Jettas and have nice flats in Lekki. The deputy manager interviews her. He is dark and good-looking and his glasses have a designer label and, as he speaks to her, she desperately wishes he would notice her. He doesn’t. He tells her that they would like to hire her to do ‘PR’, which will mean going out and bringing in new accounts. She will be working with Yinka. If she can bring in ten million naira during her trial period, she will be guaranteed a permanent position. She nods as he speaks. She is used to men’s attention and is sulky that he does not look at her as a man looks at a woman and she does not quite understand what he means by going out to get new accounts until she starts the job two weeks later. A uniformed driver takes her and Yinka in an air-conditioned official jeep— she runs her hand over the smooth leather seat, breathes in the crisp air, is reluctant to climb out—to the home of an Alhaji in Victoria Island. The Alhaji is avuncular and expansive with his smile, his hand gestures, his laughter. Yinka has already come to see him a few times before and he hugs her and says something that makes her laugh. He looks at Chioma. ‘This one is too fine,’ he says. A steward serves frosted glasses of chapman. The Alhaji speaks to Yinka but glances often at Chioma. Then he asks Yinka to come closer and explain the high-interest savings accounts to him, and then he asks her to sit on his lap and doesn’t she think he’s strong enough to carry her? Yinka says of course he is and sits on his lap, smiling a steady smile. Yinka is small and fair; she reminds Chioma of the Yellow Woman. 9/32 8/25/2015 Jumping Monkey Hill | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie What Chioma knows of the Yellow Woman is what her mother told her. One slow afternoon, the Yellow Woman had walked into her mother’s boutique on Adeniran Ogunsanya Street. Her mother knew who the Yellow Woman was, knew the relationship with her husband had been on for a year, knew that he had paid for the Yellow Woman’s Honda Accord and flat in Ilupeju. But what drove h ...
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Summary and Analysis Assignment
Institution Affiliation




This book, Jumping Monkey Hills was written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, published
in 2009. The book is about African writers’’ workshop situated at a place referred to as Jumping
Monkey Hills. The epitomic participants in this book are, Edward Campbell an administrator
married to Hillary; who won the Lipton African Writers’ prize. The other main character is
Ujumwa, writer African from Nigeria and worked in the bank, in her narrative Adichie focuses
on the stereotypes that the African people experience, Adichie narrates the experience of the

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