Imagine you are seated at a long dinner table full of your favorite dishes and drinks. You are being celebrated for some mean achievement; you have written a book, launched a business or finally married the girl of dreams- yes, that one that you thought was out of your league. You have scored on that business deal. You have bought land. On one end is you and on the other end are your blushingly proud parents. On yours and your parents’ right and left are all your relatives and friends; the ones that you love and that equally love you back.
For no reason whatsoever, you get up on your feet, hold with both your hands the hems of the table cloth and in one move pull it from under the dishes and glasses, sending them flying in all directions. As the last sounds of the clinking and crashing of glasses, cutlery and dinner plates ebb away, you look to see the horrified looks on the faces of your aunties and uncles, splattered with soup and mayonnaise. Then, when everybody is looking at you, waiting for some sort of explanation for your actions, you sit back down like you did nothing at all.
This is what the author just did to society with this book- and this book truly may or may not upset you, depending on whether you’re the one pulling the rug, or the one being splattered with mayonnaise. Alternatively, you might be the waiter who hands out napkins and helps everybody clean up, then continues to stand besides the table and watch the narrative unspool. If you do, you might enjoy this story about kissing cousins, unfaithful husbands and wives, African spirituality, gender identity, long haired men and the death of Vivek Oji.
