Here is a semi-autobiographical novel about what it means to really be ‘self-made.’ The main character is born to a low income family in Nigeria, and with zero help (and some resistance) from them manages to get herself a scholarship to high school. This opens the door to university, which she can only attend if married (long story).
She graduates, gets a great job, and her husband moves to London to study. She follows him, with two of their children, and finds him overwhelmed in this new context. He struggles without his extended family, and with the racism, and deals with it by beating her. She gets another great job, while he ‘studies.’ He refuses to allow her to use birth control, despite them having no money, because according to him he can stop pregnancy with his mind. She ends up with five children by 23, and is still the only one with a job.
She eventually writes a novel, encouraged by her colleagues at the library. It’s the 60s, so its all in exercise books, and her husband BURNS IT. This is the moment where she breaks and leaves him. Two weeks later he hunts her down and nearly kills her.
This probably sounds pretty bleak, like it’s a story of domestic violence. But weirdly, this is not at all how it reads. I can only describe it as joyful? It is carried on so much by her energy and her optimism and her love of her children. It’s kind of a classic immigrant story about building your own life, and knowing you are beating the odds. Perspective truly is everything.