#BookReview Queenie by Candice Cart-Williams

Rating: 4.5 Stars

Publication Date: 19th March, 2019

Genre: Novel, Psychological Fiction, Urban fiction, Biographical Fiction

Queenie is one of the most relatable novels I have ever read; and that’s not just because Queenie (the protagonist) is a 25-year-old, Jamaican British black woman trying to navigate life in London without looking and feeling like a complete failure; as most of us are (minus the youthful 25 years of age, the Jamaican British-ness, and the living in London).

The novel starts off on a witty tone that I cackled at: Queenie is in the hospital for a gynae appointment with her aunt Maggie, who happens to be going off about what a horrible idea it is for a woman to knowingly deal with a Gemini man, especially one born in June. I’ll admit that I was struck by a cold sweat when I heard this because,  as some of you will know, I happen to be married to one said Gemini man, born in June (And I’ll have you know, he is the best decision I’ve made in adulthood). We’re also brought into the fact that Queenie and her boyfriend Tom are on a break (Later on in the book, we learn that this is for several reasons: Queenie’s inability to be vulnerable and open up about issues – and Tom’s inability to defend Queenie from his racist Uncle being at the forefront)  and that she isn’t dealing with this well. Her coping mechanisms are not healthy; she constantly makes horrible decisions that she knew were horrible decisions (and I cringed at every single time)– and as a result of this, her life completely unravels.

The novel is a roller-coaster of emotions from confusion, to anger, to disappointment in the decisions she made through the novel and at one point, I was bawling my eyes out (silently, in bed while the Gemini man, born in June peacefully slept). It was so emotional because I fully understood what Queenie was going through – because I found so many similarities between she and I (which suggests that there is a lot to work through, but we already know this). Queenie genuinely is just a plus-sized girl, trying to do well at her job, find and use her voice against the social injustices that black people face; and more than anything else – be loved. And isn’t that all we’re trying to do?

I bawled my eyes out when I read one line in the novel – I’ll let you find the context yourselves because you absolutely have to read it; but she’s asked what she thinks of herself when she looks in the mirror. Her response is “I try not to look in the mirror.” And for me, that was one of the most heartbreaking moments in the whole novel because I know that girl, and have been that girl for as long as I have been alive. This is not about me, however.

Candice Carty-Williams is a phenomenal storyteller, who has the right amount of wit and British humour that seasons the serious theme of the novel. And I’m so pleased to have come across it (all thanks to Angie – who you can learn more about here) and had the chance to delve into something so great.

So, I Inherited A Social Life…

Literally anyone on the face of this planet, who has encountered me, will tell you one thing about me: I am not great at social gatherings. My social gatherings experience includes three phases:

Phase 1: Crippling anxiety at the thought of meeting brand new people who won’t automatically understand my quirks and having to explain the reason why my left eye moves in a cartoonish manner when I chew, without dampening their spirits with tales on childhood jaundice and insecurity of eating in front of people for years following that.

Phase 2: Attempting to train my face to not instantly react the way that it naturally does when people say things that are, quite frankly, incorrect and offensive. This is difficult for my face. While my mouth is able to sow itself shut during the process of my brain screaming expletives at people for saying horrendous things, my face hasn’t quite caught up to the socially acceptable nod and gracefully disagree agenda the rest of my body is aligned with.

Phase 3: Pretending to be happy to be in the midst of people while my shoulders droop and my eyes reach out for help to anyone who will be kind enough to call the fire department or the police to shut down the festivities for some reason or other (I’d be happy with an impromptu (and scandalous) drug bust to happen) freeing me and all of the other patrons from the horror of having to pretend that we’re enjoying ourselves and do not want to tuck ourselves into bed with a great book and a cup of Joe.

 

I have mastered these phases in the few years that I have been alive. I have mastered them to the point of fully understanding that in order to free myself of the disappointingly quick decline from phase 1 to 3 (takes about five minutes after arrival at social events) – it is better for me to just stick to the house. It is a safe space, where I do not have to pretend to like people. This is not to say that I do not like people, of course, it is more to say that I admit to liking people in very small doses spread really far apart. The longer I can go without having to encounter people (and new ones at that) the better. I know that of myself.

 

Now. I recently made the old age transition from being a single gal, into the adventurous life of marriage. My husband is an incredibly handsome, smart and loving man with the social quota of a dolphin.  My husband comes alive in the midst of people – he becomes a flower in bloom, with all of the animations and the knowledge to carry some of the most mundane conversations. He has the ability to listen intently at the right times, to laugh at the right times and to add little pieces of gems into the conversations that just make them so much richer. In essence, my husband is a social butterfly – and as such, has quite the social life.

 

In this regard, we are complete opposites.

 

As a “byproduct” of being married, I have since inherited my husband’s social life. Since we jumped over the broom (figuratively – there was no broom and the shoes I wore under my wedding gown would not have allowed for any jumping at any point) I have encountered so many people – I’ve gone to dinner parties, I’ve gone to fellowship braai’s and then some. I have had to smile and hug more people than I generally would; I have spoken to more people than my mind can fathom. I’d like to pat myself on the back and take all of the credit for the fact that I have been able to get through these instances without having to step away into the bathroom to curl myself into a tiny ball to breathe for a full five minutes before returning, but alas I cannot.

 

Just this past weekend – we attended an Empire themed 40th birthday celebration. His biggest concern was the need for him to appear in costume (which somehow, turned out incredibly well. For someone who openly abhors the colour gold – he sure looks amazing in it.) as he is completely against the concept of having to appear as anybody but yourself at all moments in life. For reference, he went as Lucious Lyon and I, as the version of Cookie Lyon crouched behind a vehicle scared out of her mind.

My biggest concerns were my make up (which, by the Grace of God, came together quite well) and the fear of having to make conversation with brand new people without it looking painful (*insert GIF of Maleficent trying to smile here*). Don’t ask me how but I survived and we left at a time that was suitable for the both of us (He has since discovered he cannot be in a place with loud music for too long a period without feeling like he is losing his mind). I would even go so far as to say that I had a good time. (Also, they served an amazing butter chicken and I’m slightly ashamed of my cook-in-sauce version I religiously make when visitors come).

 

Naturally, Sunday turned out to be one of those “I’m not leaving the house unless it involves copious amounts of food and the promise of never seeing daylight after that” days because I was drained.

 

I openly admit that it takes a lot out of me. I admit that I probably turn into the worst recluse following the social benders. I’m appreciative that he humours me with days spent not leaving the house following these events/activities. And I think that that’s what makes humouring him with my socially awkward encounters with the people in his life, worth it. The balance of us both understanding the way we are, and going out of our way to meet each other in the middle. The knowledge that neither of us are trying to change the other and force them into being what we would prefer.

 

So here we are; he and I. The social butterfly and the hermit – going through this life thing together and enriching the process with the excitement and the horror of attending social events. And somehow, I look forward to the pandemonium that ensues.

Source

#BookReview Purple Hibiscus – Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Rating: 5 Stars

Publication Date: October 2003

Genre: Fiction

I went into Purple Hibiscus blindly – led by my wish to read more African novels, as well as my affinity for Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie from hearing her eloquent and well thought-out speeches. I went in not knowing what to expect other than a purely Nigerian novel that would make me feel at home in the richness of the African context. I had not read any reviews about it; I had not heard any conversations about it, save for my sister (Zwakele) stating that she had read it a while back and liked it. So I was blindsided by the themes of the novel. I was severely confused. And my anger quickly flew through the roof while I turned page after page – seeking some kind of relief to the trauma that was hurtled at me throughout the novel.

 

Now that that’s out: the review.

 

Purple Hibiscus is a novel that follows a very staunch Christian (Roman Catholic to be precise) family, narrated through the view of the youngest of the home – a girl by the name of Kambili who, immediately strikes me as a people pleaser riddled with fear and anxiety beyond comprehension. It doesn’t help that she is constantly second guessing herself, constantly willing herself to be more – to talk more, for the purpose of pleasing people more. She leads us to the family set up, introducing us to her brother, Jaja, her mother (Mama) and father (Papa).

 

You can, from the very beginning, sense the power dynamic at play. This dynamic seems to be more than just the God assigned “man being the head of the home”, and transcends into this brand new level where everyone in the household does their absolute best to please him; to not step even the smallest bit out of the line he has set for his family. Of course, the idea of everybody except for the man himself, walking around on eggshells for the duration of the novel makes for a very uncomfortable read where you’re constantly screaming at the pages for someone to speak out; and at some point, it happens.

 

So the story, at the beginning is told when Jaja makes the brazen decision to disregard Papa’s power by refusing to partake in Holy Communion during Mass and when confronted about it; his defiance is apparent. Kambili notes this as the moment that completely tipped the balance and unsettled the home as a whole. Nothing was ever the same from this point on.

 

There are so many instances in the book that strike me because every single time the violence masked as “discipline from a loving parent” is introduced, I want to scream into the abyss and hope to reach Chimamanda at the time that she was writing this novel. Hoping to bring her to the understanding that it was enough – that no one alive would be fine with being beaten to a pulp each time they made a mistake. One such instance, and this is the one that stands out to me, was when Mama – having recently announced her pregnancy to the children following countless miscarriages, suggests that she stay in the car and not visit Father Benedict after mass like the family usually did. Papa asked if she was certain that she wanted to stay in the car – not a question, rather a statement of his displeasure at the thought that she would not want to follow through with a system he had put in place. Further along the line of the same day, she is beaten until she loses the baby – and Kambili’s narration of this is alarmingly calm.

 

I could not stop reading the novel. I could not stop hoping for a better life for Mama, Jaja and Kambili. I could not stop waiting for someone to realize what a monster Papa was, even though the narration of the novel makes it seem like he isn’t that bad. From the outside looking in, I just wanted him taken away and I wanted to see the characters develop their potential in a place that didn’t stifle them as the homestead in which they existed. I wanted someone to stop placating everyone by putting the “he does so much for everybody” excuse on the man. I wanted someone to stop excusing his behaviour with love and training up his young in the faith as God would have wanted him to. I wanted someone to put an end to the chaos!

 

I wasn’t disappointed. There were plot twists, jaw dropping moments and hair pulling moments of anger and frustration. But it was worth every hour of sleep I lost trying to find the answers I was searching for in the novel.

#BookReview The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake – Aimee Bender

Rating: 4.5 Stars

Publication Date: 1st June 2010

Genre: Fiction

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake is the kind of novel you talk about at dinner parties for years after you have read it. It is the kind of novel you recommend to every single person you happen to know. The kind of novel that brings you into your own existence and makes you question your relationships with the people around you; what you know about them, what you don’t and whether you would be able to deal with the things that you do not know of them. The style in which Aimee Bender chose to write this book is that which instantly cocoons you in a warmth and comfort while thrilling you enough to make it impossible for you to stop flipping the pages in desperation as you seek more and more of the images she conjured up and placed delicately on paper. It is an emotive novel.

The novel follows the Edelstein family, particularly focusing on Rose – an eight year old girl who has nothing but love for her family. She comes home from school before her 9th birthday and tastes the lemon cake with a chocolate frosting that her mother baked as a practice run for her birthday cake. Rose steals a small bite of the cake while her mother is looking away; and what she tastes unsettles her so much that she cuts a slice of the cake to be certain.

Imagine being able to taste the utter misery of your mother in the piece of cake she has made. Imagine being able to taste her depression and just how far away she is, regardless of the light and airy facade she maintains as she busies herself through life. This is how Rose finds out that she is able to taste how people feel. She is able to taste despair, disdain and how rushed people were while they were making the food. This changes her life, as you would imagine such a discovery would.

 

The book is whimsical. The characters are mysterious. Finding more out about the Edelstein family is like putting together the contents of a box mix cake with the wet ingredients and watching the fragments come together to make a sensible piece of tangible matter. It is like putting together the tiny pieces of a 1000 piece puzzle and seeing a picture form. We discover things that we could not fathom through the process of the book. We make sense of all of the puzzling things that happen through the novel.

 

I am grateful to have stumbled upon this one. I would 100% recommend this book to add just that little sprinkle fairy dust into your literary experiences.

The Bravery of Doing It While Feeling Like A Failure At It.

 

Source

I don’t write well about myself.

I don’t know how to bring people into the mechanics of my mind.

I don’t know how to bring people into the vastness of emotion that exists within me, because how can you explain something to someone when you barely have a firm grasp of it yourself?

How do you express your blatant mistrust of human beings without presenting yourself as a misanthrope and cynic?

How do you bring your concerns to the forefront without painting yourself as wildly insecure? Without feeling sorry for the people that have to live with (and around) me?

How do I express my exhaustion without coming off as an ungrateful destination chaser with no sense of direction, and sadly, no sense of reality?

I’m not sure how to write about myself and my experiences, without it seeming like a request for a pity party.

I don’t know how to write about myself without sounding like I’m crying for help. Like I’m inconveniencing people with the nugatory scenes of my life; and the chaos and the tragedy in waking up for work every day and the inability to find balance.

I don’t know how to write about myself without exposing myself as a mess, as unworthy.

Perhaps, this is when I should write about myself the most.

Perhaps in my attempt to sort through the words; in my attempt to make sense to you – I can solve the mysteries of myself.