Category: Book Reviews

Literary Postmortem: Mother Mary Comes to Me by Arundhati Roy

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A memoir and memorial all in one.

Nothing could have prepared me for the many lives Arundathi Roy has lived. It’s amazing that she’s still standing, intact, after what can only be described as a relentlessly trying few decades on this earth.

When I first picked up the copy in a bookstore late last year, I thought fondly of her visit to South Africa in 2018. Sitting in a packed auditorium at UCT, I had taken the day off and readied myself to be awed for the two hours we had with her. See, Roy is somewhat of a personal hero to me. Her words and mind have helped me sharpen my own, see and experience the world differently.

Reading this memoir, something she said in that setting, turned over frequently as I realised just how much of her fiction has been informed by her very life.

“Only fiction can tell the truth… it has its ear and heart very close to the ground. Fiction is years of listening and travelling and sweating that experience out in ink.” Roy, August 13, 2018

From the early pages of her latest work, through to the last, some 400 pages later, one can’t help but be stunned and struck by just how closely fiction mimics reality for her. To now know that Velutha from The God of Small Things, was based on a real man, made my whole year. He remains one of my favourite literary characters to date.

What hit me first and has stayed with me since is the indelible marks our parents leave on us. Regardless of their intent, the impact of their actions seeps into our marrow in confounding and lasting ways. Roy’s relationship with her mother comes across as being rooted in something like love, fear, jealousy, disdain and deep affinity all rolled into one. There’s an understanding on the page that this toxic and at times abusive cocktail cannot be survived, at close proximity at least, so Roy and her brother run as soon as they are able, but the taste of it, no matter how bitter, is something that stays with them. Something you crave even, for her anyway.

She manages to write about both her parents with care and admiration, despite the lasting and lingering pain either has inflicted. My assumption around that is the way Roy considers herself an imperfect person, she extends that grace to her close relations with a knowing that in the far reaches of any given relationship, love exists. Which to me harks back to the title of the memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, yes, it’s a clever play and shoutout to her obsession with The Beatles, but on a deeper level I think it’s an acknowledgement of the acceptance of what their relationship was and wasn’t (or could not be). That while she describes her mother as her shelter and her storm in the book’s early pages, she has chosen to point us to the house and not just the impending weather. Her mother, like so many others, defied and defeated incredible odds to build the life she did. She fought tooth and nail for everything she had, and therein lies the affinity I pointed to earlier.

It’s an almost unbelievable read, Roy’s life (to me) is characterised by extremes which mould her into the rebel, vagabond, artist and fighter I have come to love. Her convictions are firmly rooted in her experiences and the unwillingness to look away in the face of personal and collective injustice.

As always, with anything she writes, it drips with imagery and perfect prose which force you read and re-read some passages over and over in a desperate attempt to commit their meaning to memory.

I think one would struggle to read this if you aren’t already a fan of her’s or at the very least intrigued by her and her work. If you are, highly recommend it. Best bits below.

Best bits: On the calculation of volume by Solvej Balle 

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November 18th when I catch you 🥷🏾 What was simply once an innocuous date and an old Drake song I like became my biggest opp while reading this novel. 

In short, Tara (our protagonist) is stuck in the same day playing itself out on a loop. One that renders her so far removed from the original day and the life that preceded it, that she has to physically escape it and start looking for a door into the next day. 

This is one of seven books in a series that explores some interesting metaphysical possibilities. You know I love me some sci-fi, parallel universe stuff so my mind was racing with possible hypothesis while reading. Beyond the compelling plot, Balle’s prose grips you from the onset and throughout. Her use of metaphor about marital loneliness in particular was heart wrenching. I also liked that so far there were no easy answers about how this happened to Tara, it allowed me to be intimately melded to her frustration and curiosity. 

Would I read it again? You know what, no. You can feel the frustration and drag of the day and “dis nou genoeg”. 

Would I recommend it? Yes! 

Would I put it on a ‘100 books you must read before you die list’? No, not mine anyway, maybe yours. But doesn’t take away from it being a wonderful read. 

Literary Postmortem: You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty by Akwaeke Emezi

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What a frustratingly delicious and maddening rollercoaster ride this novel was. Feyi when I catch you?! This was a page turner for sure, but because it was a library book, I couldn’t mark it up as I went along so instead, I am going to go through some of the questions in the book club reading guide, as a means to reflect on my experience of it.

Q: Feyi’s interior monologue (and actions) In response to Nasir’s pursuit rapidly oscillates between interest and disgust, as we see in chapter 2: “he was hunting her”; “she wanted him closer. She wanted him far, far away.” What does Feyi want on the roof? Do we know? Does she?

I think she carries enormous guilt about the fact that she not only survived the accident with Jonah, but is now at a place where she is physically and emotionally trying to explore new connections. Feyi is on the roof because she is really curious about Nasir, but also knows she can’t make eyes at him ‘during the people’ (South African turn of phrase, look it up, or don’t). So she knows they can have a private moment up there.

Q: In chapter 3, Joyce says, “Maybe Nasir is it—not the serious thing itself, but just the chance. Don’t run away from it,” in response to Feyi’s insecurities about accepting a date with Nasir. Later, Joy’s voice in Feyi’s head tells her to take a chance. What does this chance refer to and what could it mean will Feyi?

A chance at a real romantic relationship, what she has with Milan is purely physical but she can already sense that things would be a lot more serious with Nasir.

Q: When thinking about her developing emotional intimacy with Nasir, Feyi considers the fact that their physical intimacy is moving glacially. In chapter 4, Feyi asks Nasir whether he was sleeping with anyone, and his response allows for a shared moment of trust and humour between them. Nasir uses that space as an opportunity to inquire about Feyi’s studio. How does this reflect their respective outlets of intimacy and their inevitable relationships to it?

There’s a quiet acknowledgement that Feyi isn’t quite ready for physical intimacy because Nasir is ‘more’ than just a guy, knowing that he is being ‘serviced’ elsewhere brings her some relief that she can push that task even further out (emphasis on task). I remember taking issue with how this conversation moved on so casually, flippantly almost. But I recognise that is because I hold a candle for Nasir and I was upset that he was stepping out on us 🥲😅 The pivot to the studio conversation is his effort to get to know her more deeply, he is at this moment operating under the premise that she wants to be known fully before taking their relationship to the next level. Oh, if only he knew 😦 Shame I’m being unfair she also was giving their relationship a genuine chance at this point, but definitely holding back A LOT under the guise of taking things slow.

Q: “So much of her time was spent in uncertainty” Feyi reflects on her imposter syndrome; meanwhile “It was hard to imagine Alim ever doubting if he fit into whatever he was.” What were Feyi’s doubts around her work? How does this doubt pervade other aspects of her life and how does she view Alim’s sureness in comparison?

Because her art is so personal, it puts her life up for scrutiny and judgment from others and herself. It operates as a mechanism to memorialise and process, which requires enormous amounts of vulnerability from her, which she isn’t entirely comfortable with. Alim is able to practice his art more freely because he is more open and quick to vulnerability, it colours his world as opposed to dimming it in hers.

Q: “It was something she wanted to hear—what it was like to fall in love again after your heart had been shattered. She could feel Jonah’s presence on the mountain peak, gentle and curious,” writes Emezi in chapter 10. How does this differ from past moments of intimacy up until this point, when Feyi felt Jonah’s presence?

In other moments, she was overcome by guilt, and Jonah’s presence was her internal warning signal that what she was doing was not ‘right’. When she is on the mountain top with gramps (sorry, not sorry #justiceforNasir) because she feels strongly for and about Alim, she doesn’t feel that guilt and/or shame; instead she feels the warmth of a familiar safety and calm by being with someone who makes sense to her.

Q: “’ There are so many different types of love, so many ways someone can stay committed to you, stay in your life even if y’all aren’t together, you know? And none of those ways are more important than the other,” Feyi says in Chapter 11. Why is this perspective liberating for Feyi?

I think she realises that moving on isn’t about forgetting Jonah, that being devoted to his memory doesn’t have to mean staying stuck in her hurt or even in who she was when they were together.

Q: In Chapter 11, Nazir tells Feyi, “Lorraine and I don’t have a lot of memories of our mum. The house helps us remember.” What does this house represent to the Black family? And to Feyi? How do these meanings influence the space she occupies in it?

I think it is a living monument to the memory of what they lost and the effort to keep things together through physical reminders of what once was. It also signals an inability to move on in some ways, less nostalgia, more shrine if you know what I mean. Crazy to me that Feyi feels a pang of jealousy seeing family photos – like yes doll, where do you think you are?!

Q: Feyi fondly recalls Jonah’s words in chapter 15: “He said [being messy is] one of the best things about being human, how we could make such disasters and recover from them enough to make them into stories later.” How has this informed Feyi’s decisions in life since Jonah’s passing?

Well she’s made quite a big mess of things at the Black’s, so that’s one. This recollection allows her to remember that she can prioritise herself and her desires (not that anything had been stopping her to be fair).

Q: What is the difference between Alim calling Faye his friend and Faye calling Nasir her friend?

He meant it, she didn’t 💀

Q: “You know you can always just come home right?” Joy reassures Feyi in chapter 16. What or who is Feyi’s home here?

Joy is Feyi’s home now.

Q: In chapter 17 we witnessed the confrontation between Nasir, Feyi, and Alim. Discuss whether you expected it to go down this way or not. When Nasir’s anger and subsequent actions justified? Were Alims? How is this possibly triggering forfeit?

I actually did because I was BIG MAD myself, but I was also scared of him and what he might do in that moment, I understand why she was terrified too.

Q: Alim tells Feyi in chapter 18, “I can’t bring myself to not try to give you the best every year I have left,” to which she requests he make “no plans.” Why is Feyi resistant to making plans?

Because people can die tomorrow and none of those plans would matter, she has conditioned herself to live moment by moment because of the fear of loss that constantly walks beside her.

Q: “You can see [my painting] in any stage it’s in. I don’t care, I like showing myself to you,” Feyi tells Alim in chapter 21. How does this stark difference from her objection to showing Nasir her artwork parallel the differences in their respective relationships?

This really hurt me, because Nasir was so eager, on board, down-for-whatever, desperate for her to show herself to him. But she just couldn’t and I guess that’s only fair, we don’t have to match people’s attraction/energy/care, but I do think he was owed more honest communication about the improbability of her feelings for him growing beyond a homie level.

Q: “You’re worth it, Feyi. You can be yourself, as messy and contradictory as you like,” Joy affirms in chapter 5. “He’s lucky to even be near you.” Feyi’s feelings seemed to be at odds with each other throughout the novel. Speak to the inherent beauty in the contradiction and comfort and transients that come as a result of Feyi’s growth, both within our protagonist as well as from the perspective of the reader.

I struggled with her choices, not gonna lie, but I get them. She gave herself the chance to figure out what she truly wants and needs. She was ten toes about what she did and didn’t want for herself. I suppose the intensity of my disappointment helped me realise that people fiercely choosing exactly who and what they want for themselves might always look crazy or wrong or ill-timed to others, but that those things can’t and shouldn’t inform whether or not they make those decisions. That sometimes your body knows before you do what is meant for you and what isn’t. As much as I was batting for Nasir, choosing him would have been a betrayal of self that actually may have set Feyi back even further in her journey of healing. Alim, whether I like him or not, was the person she needed to help in coming back to herself fully and simultaneously shed the survival version that had been in the driver’s seat for the last few years (unfortunate pun, forgive me).

That said, #justiceforNasir, tell him he can find me @pheladi_s on all socials.

Literary Postmortem: The Girl With the Louding Voice by Abi Daré

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Things just kept getting worser and worser with each page I turned in this read, the sheer volume of violence and injustice both overwhelming and infuriating. Which is why I could barely put it down and sometimes spent an extra two or three hours reading before bed, I was captivated by Adunni and Daré’s literary presentation of life in rural and urban Nigeria in the early 2010s. 

I had heard much about the protagonist, Adunni before even opening this book from friends and people I go to the same internet with, mostly because of how she speaks. Daré makes the deliberate decision to write Adunni’s thoughts, fears and hopes in the broken English of a 14-year-old who didn’t quite finish school, which is true to the character and adds so much honesty to her story. The “nonstandard English” spoken by Adunni was less confusing than expected and often times more descriptive to me of the situations she found herself in, phrases like “the sky have eat up the morning sun” to describe an overcast sky, and “cold is spreading rashes all over my body” to describe goosebumps, provide such clear imagery. I think for me, the language alone was the thing that allowed me to be steeped in Adunni’s innocence and fostered an intimacy that kept me ‘on side’ no matter how bad things got for her.

Adunni’s tale is coloured by various indignities, violations and brazen injustice. The thing that keeps readers afloat is her determination to somehow overcome those odds. I usually hate an ‘against all odds’ narratives, in which wave after wave of evil is meant to simply be thwarted by sheer resilience, but Adunni’s character implores you to stay with her through all of it. She is fuelled by the prospect of different outcomes, which keeps your hope alive as well, despite the deep poverty, child marriage, domestic violence and slavery of it all. 

The chapters are short but jam-packed, which makes for a fast-paced, page-turning adventure. Daré has written some of the most endearing and repulsive characters, people like Big Madam and Morufu filled me with unspeakable rage. While their context and complex backgrounds are unpacked and do shed light on why they are the way they are, it’s a cold comfort when the object of their frustration and abuse of power is a little girl.

From about halfway through, I appreciated and even looked forward to the foreshadowing at the start of chapters, provided by whatever fact was quoted from ‘The Book of Nigerian Facts’. I like my fictional reads injected with some historical tidbits that feed my insatiable need to know things. The facts about Nigeria were fascinating and sobering, for example: 

“Fact: Child marriage was made illegal in 2003 by the Nigerian government. Yet, an estimated 17% of girls in the country, particularly in the northern region of Nigeria, are married before the age of 15.” – page 194/Chapter 35

I was looking forward to finding out some more of these revelatory facts in the book once I purchased a copy, only to find it was a fictional book used for the purposes of the narrative in the pages of this novel 😦 There is, however, a Nigerian Facts Book published in 2022, which I imagine aims to do the job of the book Adunni uses to learn about her country and her life really. 

In short, it’s a harrowing but highly entertaining read, filled with twists and turns that will still your sensibilities. I will probably never read it again because of how much trauma lives in it’s pages but I would recommend it. Best bits below.

Best bits: Journey Kwantu by Vusumzi Ngxande

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Finished reading this about a week ago, but the lessons and revelations have stayed with me, interrupting my train of thought several times a day, in an effort to grapple with its many inconvenient and reality-shifting truths. 

It’s an essential read which uses the author’s personal journey with African spirituality to tell a nuanced and well researched story that contends with mythology, history and anthropology. In so doing, it presents possibilities that challenge readers’ perceptions and beliefs. 

There are many things I am still in disbelief over, like cows being one of the reasons matriarchies came to an end on the continent; cotton being one of the true assimilatory tools of colonialism and the knowledge of family lineages being lost to the (in)convenient surname system. I am forever indebted to the author for this expansive work. 

I know I will have to revisit it and look forward to that occasion. Listening to the podcast series the book is based on is my next mission, and from the snippets I have heard so far, I am in for a treat.

Best bits: little gods by Meng Jin

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This might be my favourite read of the year.

It is the kind of novel that doesn’t let up from the moment you start. Every sentence dripping with intellect, emotion and beautiful imagery. Jin is such an incredible writer and world builder, thoroughly enjoyed my time with her complex and complicated characters.

I would describe little gods as historical fiction that is a clever marriage of science and spirituality. The characters are frustrating yet inspiring and force you to constantly question who you are rooting for. Even the most minor characters we only engage with over a few passages are written in such great detail that an affinity is immediately fostered.

There were so many sentences that took my breath away, I cannot wait to find and read more of Jin’s work.

Best bits: The Great African Society by Hlumelo Biko

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Unfortunately, I read this about ten years too late :/ Published in 2013, it was an analysis of SA at a very particular time.

Infuriatingly, many of the issues that plagued the country then continue to do so today, at alarming and probably irreparable rates now. I enjoyed his careful and considered analysis which incorporates history, social, psychological and economic nuances to dissect a nation that could have (at that point) become a ‘great society’.

The author also provides quite realistic and achievable solutions, some of which have come to bear and others which are still much needed. Would be interested in the author’s current reading of the state of affairs because 📉

Literary Postmortem: Endings and beginnings

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The fragility of life and the devaluation of individual lives in South African society swung on a pendulum throughout the 288-page stage that this memoir played out on.

For transparency’s sake, I must declare that I am a certified Redi Thlabi stan, she’s an incredible journalist and thinker I have always looked up to, and that no doubt coloured my reading somewhat. I picked my copy up at a recent book sale by publisher, Jacana, for a steal (one of those pay-per-kilogram sales – best!) Knowing Thlabi’s public persona quite well, I went in with quite specific assumptions about what her memoir might be like, and boy was I wrong on every count. Nothing could have prepared me for the twisted tale of a great first love marred by violence, manipulation and neglect. Sjoe, I was never ready shem.

Without giving away much more of the plot, I will say that the story that unfolds won’t be difficult to summon into ones imagination, Thlabi writes with a careful balance of honesty, warmth and clarity that transports you to the same street corners, the end of longing stares and swirls of despair that she experienced. It’s a reminder of how complex human beings and human relationships can be. Thlabi illustrates just how thin the line is between our precious inner lives and the relived realities that threaten it day and night. Grief stalks the pages from start to finish, the intensity of it varied from part to part and chapter to chapter, but ever present nonetheless.

Without being glaringly obvious about it, a geographic and historical profile of Soweto is sketched and helps root readers in place. The passage of time can also be seen through the lens of the location itself, ensuring that the past and present are delineated well. The lives of ordinary South Africans (and Southern Africans) during Apartheid always fascinate me, because they help us fill in the gaps that pure political and historical accounts can not. One of my favourite parts of the memoir was an account of how a central character risked life and limb to do his bit to assist in the anti-Apartheid movement. I appreciate accounts like this because the collective memory of our history can be narrow and solely focused on the people with bridges and buildings named after them, which is a distortion of how many truly played their part to fight off an oppressive regime.

Would I read it again? Nah uh. While intensely personal and revealing, I think it’s the kind of work that doesn’t necessitate revisiting when you are done reading it. Much like Khwezi, Thabi’s second book, it winds you so much that the very idea of bracing for impact again just doesn’t seem possible. But like Khwezi, it is a masterclass in using deep listening and authentic connection to navigate through one’s curiosity and sense of justice.

Some of my best bits below:

Literary Postmortem: Essays in Love

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I know the internet girlies tell us we should never spin the block, but let me tell you that doesn’t count for books and the second or third or fourth time is often better than the first.

I first read Alain de Botton’s Essays in Love some eight or so years ago when I joined a new book club shortly after moving to Cape Town to start a new gig and life. I remembered laughing and nodding along a lot, so I decided to pick it up again when I needed a pick me up a while back. My slim recollection was correct, I laughed and nodded along more upon my second read. Time and one too many relatable experiences also made sure that I cried a bit too this time around.

As someone who often has to imbibe whatever can be learned about relationships through external media and anecdotes, the writing style in this book invited an intimacy which placed me in the middle of the room when they were fighting, alongside him on taxi rides and embedded in the neural networks that carried his stream of consciousness. De Botton allows us to be flies on the wall, inviting us into this relationship and its journey from start to end. With chapter titles like ‘The Fear of Happiness’, ‘Romantic Terrorism’ and ‘Psyco-Fatalism’ one is never too far from learning some cool historical and philosophical insights while relating to the more personal linkages. The numbered paragraphs in said chapters initially look like an odd choice but it actually helped move the narrative along quite neatly.

The critique of modern love and our strange passage through it remains my most memorable takeaway from this book; it is reflective and honest about what it takes to be with another person and highlights the inner conflicts that ultimately make/break such unions. Upon a second read, I probably like it more now than I did as the hopeful romantic I was when I read it some eight years ago.

As always, the best bits below: